Losing, Los Santos Style
by SixGear Turbo
Summary: A burned out bent Detective accused of stealing five million dollars from an armored truck returns to Los Santos to help an old friend who seems to have gotten in trouble undercover
1. Chapter 1

Part 1 : Shaun Harvey

Jeez, I forgot how much I hate the heat in this place. It's so dry.

But then, almost as if the city realises I'm back, the heavens open. The deluge, mixed with the unyielding humidity, feels like I'm drowning on the goddamn sidewalk.

I find my "rental car" in an unlit long-term parking lot although, looking at the state of it, I could just as easily claim I got it from an auto-wrecker's. Before I get anywhere near the city limits I pull over and swap the license plates around of half a dozen other parked cars. Hopefully the owner of the plates that end up on the "rental" won't notice the difference too soon.

Hopefully the owner of the "rental" won't miss it at _all_ – there is, after all, a key in the sun visor, the headliner sags right down over the passenger seat, the air-con doesn't work, and the window winder is missing from the driver's door. Even more pressing right now is the fact only one windshield wiper works too. Lucky for me it's the driver's side so I can still see _half_ of what's in front of me.

It might have been careless to come in through the airport; I'm not exactly welcome in this city anymore, if I ever had been. You might be asking yourself, why's a guy that's escaped once, that's a wanted man and not just in the police precincts, why does a guy like that risk it all by skipping plain as day back through the front door?

Mainly, I don't wanna spend my entire time here looking over my shoulder. So I gave them their best chance of grabbing me, and they missed. Maybe I might make it back out when all this is over.

So then, you might ask, why the Hell did you come back at _all_?

I've been asking myself that same question the whole flight. I'm asking it again now as I drive streets once intimately familiar, now hazily recalled. There's a pang of nostalgia, sure; I gave the better part of my life to this city. It's where the underpinnings of the life I have now came from. I miss being a young guy with a future ahead of him and wonder, if I could do it all again, what would I do different?

If I'm honest with you, not a god-damn thing. That's not saying it all turned out gravy because it didn't. Maybe I'm saying I'm too stupid to learn from the first mistake and keep making it again and again. But also I don't do the "yes sir, no sir, three bags full sir" crap the _real career_ guys seem to live their lives by. If only I had the smarts maybe I could've ended up one of the shot callers, but then maybe I'd have been bored enough to screw all _that_ up too, so who gives a damn about _maybe_?

I've got a stop to make before I hit her place. Yeah, there's a 'her', but I'll get to that.

Right now I'm at a place I used to frequent, a place very few of my former colleagues would care to set foot in. It's not a comfortable spot for folks not from the neighbourhood, if you know what I mean; us white guys tend to stick out.

For all the world, it's a liquor store, cheap booze for life's losers. It's the under-counter prescriptions that I'm here for, the kind of dispenser that comes with 9mm pills. The counter guy don't know me and asks me if I'm a cop.

I laugh at that one. Counter guy calls for backup and _finally_ , here's Jerome.

"The f*** are you doing here," he all but spits at me.

Yeah, nice to see you too, a$$hole. "What, no hug," is what I say.

"What you in here fo' anyway," he demands.

Nope, no hug. Shame, I almost missed his body odor. Wait – no I didn't.

"I need a piece," I admit.

"Fool, go to the gunshop."

"No I need a piece that I might have to _use_."

"Jeez, man, then hit up the pawn shop, top of this block."

"Jerome…"

"Hang on man," Jerome starts thinking out loud. This is never good. "You mean to tell me you jus' came in here an' you _ain't_ packin'?"

Aww, damn.

He's getting on a roll now. "Damn, fool, you all _kinds_ of stupid," he points out as he steps round from behind the counter. F***, I was hoping to avoid this.

Jerome pulls his own gat from the waistband of his pants and presses it against my temple.

Lucky for me, this is more the welcome I was _kind_ of expecting so I can whip the gun from his hand before his pot-glazed mind can get to pulling the trigger, and then I bring the butt down on his nose. Him and his boy go crazy while I check the piece is loaded.

"This is a nice one J," I say, interrupting the flow of expletives and other bullsh*t coming from the pair of them. "This one for sale?"

"Hell _no_ that ain't for sale, sh*thead! That's _mine_ ," he protests, still clutching his bleeding nose, but now he swings an arm lazily in the direction of his boy. "Get him something, better make sure it don't come back on any us," he instructs.

This is good. This means I'm getting a clean piece. Counter guy puts a silver vintage semi-automatic down. There's ivory decoration on the handle but it's cracked and half covered with several layers of grubby PVC tape. He slams it down on the counter, and then slams a box of 9mm shells down next to it. I take the bullets out of Jerome's clip, just for good measure.

"Fi' hun'erd," counter guy says. If you need a translation; $500.

"Get outta here, that's extortion," I protest.

Jerome snorts. "You can afford it."

Uhh, _this_ again. I shake my head to show how tired I am of this sh*t.

"You shouldn't believe everything The Man tells you," I say. "Two hundred, and gimme some bourbon for the road."

"Three hundred, take your bourbon and get the f*** outta here," Jerome counters.

This encounter's probably going to end up costing me a _lot_ more than that, but hopefully I'll be long gone by the time Jerome's boss comes looking to collect. I get a handful of tiny airplane bottles of some nasty liquid advertising itself as bourbon, put them in the left pocket of my dishevelled suit jacket, the gun and the shells in my right, and drop Jerome's gun in a mop bucket full of filthy water by the door on my way out.

The little bottles aren't cheap, but they oughta be. I'd try using 'em as toilet cleaner if only cola weren't so much cheaper.

It's a little after nine when I pull up to her place on Fudge Street. I park a ways down from her house by a vacant lot because I don't want any curtain twitchers noticing me parking right outside. There's a light on in her window but nobody answers when I buzz the door. I can't see movement through the window, or in any of the adjacent houses, so I head around the back, sticking to the shadows. Last thing I need is someone calling the cops for a prowler, but lucky for me the rain and the dark covers most of my movement and my noise.

The back door's ajar. I draw my piece and nudge it further open, see that the lock's all busted from where it's been kicked in. Now I move slowly inside, sweeping methodically through the house like I did when I was a _real_ detective. Whoever was here is long gone, and by all appearances, so is she; there's some strewn clothing in her bedroom and the sheets are unmade.  
The bathroom sink and tub under the shower are bone dry. At least a couple of days' mail sitting under the slot.

I keep the nine in my hand until I'm back in the car. I'd been concerned before, but now I've got that cold feeling in my chest.

I didn't really know her. She was working despatch to pay her way through the academy when I worked homicide. It was only after my fall from grace, as it were, and subsequent hightail out of the state that she graduated, and quickly made detective.

That she managed it at all is all kinds of wrong. She's smart, don't get me wrong. Witty too, and I don't doubt she can protect herself, one on one, if push comes to shove. But far too _nice_. This work isn't for nice people and it isn't for straight-shooters. Being nice doesn't open the doors you need to kick open, doesn't get people talking that you need to beat the story out of.

Oh, you think I'm a dinosaur? Come see me when it's _your_ sister, or wife, or mom that's lying dead in a convenience store parking lot. When you want _justice_ but none of the 28 witnesses caught the license plate or the colour or even the god-damn _make_ of the minivan that did the drive-by. When none of them saw which way it went out of the lot. When you _know_ that _they_ know who the trigger man is but they ain't talking because they got to cover for their truancy or pot stash or unlicensed firearm or other _bad habit_.

When the killer's some wise-ass underage gang banger that sees no difference between hitting an innocent bystander with an AK or choosing no cheese in their taco.

Damn, where was I? Oh yeah. Nice.

Nice doesn't keep you alive long in Los Santos.

Back in the car, I shake the rain off and pull my phone out of my inner jacket pocket to read her email again. Wonder why, out of _everyone_ she could've reached out to, did she pick me? Not too difficult to work out, actually; she'd been sent undercover and she thought she was in danger. Either she mistrusted her handler, or else she was afraid of them. So she had to call for backup.

I was polite to her because I thought she was cute. Other guys, they hit on her all the time, said some downright filthy things to her, just cos they liked the way she blushed. I saw how much she didn't like that, and I didn't like her being exposed to it either.

Now I'm no gentleman, but there was something about her that made me want to shield her from all the dirty in the world. Call it my one remaining shred of decency, or maybe my desperation to have one.

Her name is Candace Butler but she has a little tattoo just behind her right ear, three little daisies. None of the other guys seemed to have noticed on it when they were busy making vulgar comments about her tits. So, whenever I was alone with her, I called her 'Flowers'.

That's how she signed off the email. That's why I'm sure it's her.

I need to know about her undercover assignment so I'm going to have to visit an old "colleague". Now won't that be _nice_?

I've never been one for good ideas, but the liquor from Jerome's store, although nasty, did a good job of numbing my senses and, besides, I wanted to see how the Lieutenant would react, so I poked the bear in the eye with a stick for the second time that evening and went and sat next to him at his usual barstool, ordered myself a decent drink from the barmaid before offering him any form of acknowledgement.

Actually, I decided to ignore him while I drank too, just to poke him that little bit more. Finally he got fed up and snarled "you've got some balls."

"Good evening to you too, Ray," I finally said and tilted my empty glass towards the barmaid, indicating for a refill.

"Tell me why I shouldn't arrest you right now and drag your sorry ass in front of all the boys you betrayed at the precinct."

"Because I suspect your _real_ boss would prefer the cops _didn't_ get to me first."

He chuckles then, before turning real serious. "Give us a minute Mandy," he barks, and the barmaid makes herself scarce.

Like I said, I've never been one for good ideas. Confronting the Lieutenant at his regular haunt was a foolish move. I should have anticipated the assault from the six guys now coming up behind me.

Oh, wait a minute, I _did_ anticipate it; I'm already dropping off my stool when the first punch comes, hastily redirected to try and catch me mid-flight and as such it hurts the top of my spine but won't slow me down much until the bruise comes out later. My spine on the guy's knuckles hurts him more than me and by that time I'm on the ground, bringing the stool around sweeping at the legs of the guys there.

The Lieutenant's already tumbled off his stool and scurried back. He could hold his own in this fight but he's fat and lazy and, more to the point, he's with his boys so why bother?

He's got a superior smirk that I'm looking forward to wiping off his face, but now the odds have caught up and the six guys are raining punches on me. I'm on the floor again because they've put me there and all I can do is curl up and hope they don't hit anything important, like the gun I'm fighting to get into my hand that I blow one of their feet off with.

Yeah, that gets their attention. They fall back a little and I take the opportunity to clamber back to my feet, swinging the piece from face to face. Sure, any of them can rush me, but who's first in line to take a bullet for his buddies, huh? Huh?

"Boys, let me introduce you to _Detective_ Shaun Harvey. You might remember he hit a crew right after _they_ ripped off an armored truck, and made off with five million dollars." The Lieutenant says "five million dollars" slowly, like a gameshow host, or maybe like he's not sure if his boys can _count_ to five.

Oh yeah, didn't I mention? I'm famous. Apparently I'm filthy rich too, but if you know what I apparently did with the loot, I'd appreciate you letting me know. I might even throw you half for your trouble.

From the looks on the guys' faces – at least the ones not on the floor howling for their momma, holding the bloody stump that used to be their foot – _they_ want to know what I did with the money too.

"Who is it you're working for these days Ray," I ask. "Is it Madrazo or Weston? Or… someone else?"

"Looks to me like you have a more _pressing_ concern," he retorts, still wearing that godawful smirk. Seriously, he looks like he's been caught in the middle of soiling himself.

"You're right, I do. I need to talk to one of your undercover dicks."

He laughs at that one, laughs long and hard. "I can't say I don't miss you Harvey," he beams.

"Yeah, always lovely talking to you Ray. We'll have to catch up again sometime. Now if you don't mind," and I wave with the pistol briefly, indicating that I'd maybe like a bit of space to head out the door, if it's all the same to you nice boys.

"Let him go, boys," the Lieutenant orders, wearily, but resigned. They try to look tough for a minute. Damn near succeed too, but then they back up. Not much, but enough for me to slide through keeping my gun on them. Eventually, as I near the exit, they turn their attention, rather unsympathetically, to their injured friend. My exit isn't anywhere near as graceful as my entrance. I'm gonna need an aspirin and maybe some more bourbon.

So, what did that achieve? I'll be honest with you – nothing. But can I tell you a secret? It wasn't supposed to.

You might be thinking, Harvey you _idiot_ , why not just sit in the car and follow him when he leaves? See where he goes? But I already know the answer to that. He'll go to a titty bar, or to Lacey's to see the working girl without a visa he thinks he's exploiting. If he's feeling _particularly_ whacky, he might even go home and play the good husband to his wife (he's got grandkids now, two from his oldest daughter and his son's wife has one on the way).

What makes me think my appearance will make him change his plans for the rest of the evening? Well, technically, Ray's not stupid. But sometimes he makes an exception.

If I'd have been thinking more clearly, I'd have stopped by an electronics store, figured out some way to bug his car or listen in to his phone.

But I wasn't, and moving around the city was perilous enough anyway so I called Lester to do it for me.

Lester's brilliant with computers but if you're a human being, well, calling him may have been a mistake.

Nonetheless, I'm _not_ tailing the Lieutenant. He'd spot that. No, I'm driving out of the city to a rural motel for the night, making sure nobody's tailing _me_ , so I'm nowhere near him when he stops at Legion Square and scurries to a phone booth.

Lester's got an audio feed from the booth before the number connects, but the conversation's short and one-sided; the Lieutenant simply says "he's back in town," and hangs up.

I'm just getting ready for a hot shower when Lester calls with the lack of news. The number the Lieutenant called is unregistered, probably a burner, and whoever's using it is hiding their tracks well because the signal seemed to be coming from China. Either that, or Ray's working for the Triads, which is unlikely. He's your all-American corrupt police official, as long as you count Mexico as part of America.

I've got a million questions about what's really going on. I've also got a million aching parts, my head is starting to pound because it's been too long since my last drink and I'm tired so I shower, put my clothes in an easy-to-grab bundle and get into bed with the gun and car keys in my hand.


	2. Chapter 2

Part 2 : Shaun Harvey

I wake up and immediately wish I hadn't. The pain in my head isn't just a hangover and the darkness lifting isn't the slow rise of the sun through flimsy motel room curtains but rather someone pulling a black bag off my head.

I'm handcuffed in my boxer shorts to an uncomfortable metal chair but before that I'd been beaten around the motel room they abducted me from by a bunch of meatheads and then thrown into somebody's trunk. They stopped me from kicking the tail light out by knocking me unconscious and then cuffing my wrists and ankles together behind my back so I'm all kinds of achy and disoriented now.

There's a bright light shining right in my face so I can't see much, but I _can_ see the small oriental dude with the shaved head, mirror-lensed sunglasses and off-white suit who slices my chest with a switchblade just above my right nipple. F***, that _hurt_. I won't lie, I don't even _know_ whether or not I just messed myself in agony.

"Imagine my surprise that you're back in town," an accented voice that I immediately recognise booms.

"Jesus… Madrazo?" That earns me a punch in the mouth from the dude in the suit.

Martin Madrazo. Depending on what newspaper you read, you will either know him as one of the state's most eminent self-made businessmen, or as one of the most ruthless cartel lords this side of the border. But then, that wouldn't be fair because, despite spending most of his time attending various court appointments, nothing has ever been proven against him and this is _America_ , damn it. You're innocent until proven guilty. Well, except, it seems, in my case, but hey.

"What did you do with the five million," Madrazo asks. That makes me laugh. I'd laugh so hard it hurt if the dude in the suit didn't punch me again to shut me up.

"What did you do with the five million," Madrazo insists again.

This time, I just shake my head. "S'funny, I'd been thinking of asking you the same thing," I say. Why does my voice sound so weird? Oh yeah, his interrogator's broken my nose.

Now Madrazo steps up. Not close enough I can see him, I can just make out his vague presence behind the damn light.

"You're accusing _me_ of ripping off my _own_ _money_?"

"I thought about it," I admit. "But then I thought better of it."

You're damn straight I thought better; this guy's a nut job. Which still makes him my #1 suspect but there's a whole self-preservation thing stopping me from turning over _that_ particular stone. However, it does add weight to one theory; _he_ was the one running the primary hit on the truck.

"Why did you return," Madrazo asks, changing tack.

"Who told you? The Lieutenant?" The suit punches me again while Madrazo asserts that _he's_ the one asking the questions.

Cogs are turning in my head. The Lieutenant works, or worked for Madrazo, and Candace Butler works for The Lieutenant, so there's a fair chance he sent her under into Madrazo's operation, but then why? Unless he's looking for a way to get himself out of Madrazo's pocket, but if that was the case it'd be far easier to kill him and, anyway, Ray's in a comfy position… isn't he?

I get another punch. "I'm waiting for an _answer_ , a$$hole," Madrazo snaps.

"Someone framed me. I want to know who," I spit. Convincingly, because it's partially true. True enough for Madrazo to shove the suit out of the way and bend down in front of me so I can finally see him properly.

"You are the one who had the easiest opportunity to murder the crew," he accuses.

That gets me angry. "I got _ten grand_ for making sure the path was clear for the truck to take its detour. Easiest ten grand I ever made, and the promise of _more_ where that came from. Paid _cash_ , used bills so I didn't even need to figure out how to _launder_ the damn stuff. I _did_ my job, they drove past, I left. Next day I get up to go to work and see on the news I'm a wanted man."

Madrazo stares hard at me for a long time. Uncomfortably long. I think he's going to kill me right there himself.

"I'll be in touch," he finally says and straightens up, steps back out of the light. "Hurry up and find my _money_."

Suit steps back in and punches me right in the face and finally the light goes out.

When I come round, Madrazo, his goons, the chair, the light, my clothes and my gun are gone. My phone and car keys lie in the middle of my curled form, and the "rental" is waiting just outside the abandoned ruin out in the middle of the god-forsaken nowhere they'd dragged me to for this little conversation, but otherwise it's just me on the floor in my boxer shorts.

It doesn't take me long to work out that Madrazo already knew I didn't have the money; I managed that shortly after the pain of resetting my own nose wore off.

How can I be so sure, you ask? Simple; if he had in any way suspected otherwise I'd likely have never left the ruin. At least not without a brand new permanent disability.

As it is, I'm not even missing any teeth, although as I feel around my mouth to check I decide it might be wise not to eat anything too taxing for a few days. Which reminds me I haven't eaten since breakfast yesterday.

The phone rings just as I slide into the car. "You're a heavy sleeper for a fugitive," Lester sneers. A quick glance at the phone reveals I have a couple of missed calls from him trying to warn me.

"Thanks anyway," I say when I've put the handset back to my ear.

Truth be told, my first comfortable bed in years got the better of me. Either that or I'm nowhere near as good at this lifestyle as I thought I was. "Listen, Lester, I'm gonna need some help…"

"You're going to need a _babysitter_. Lucky for you, creepy Uncle Lester has already pulled some strings, but they _aren't_ going to come for free. You probably want to argue that you're doing your own thing, but without my help you might as well lie down in front of your car and wait to die.."

"Fine, Lester, I'm listening."

"Good. Now, there's a rumour that you weren't a half bad detective back before the thing people allege you did…"

"Whatever man, just give me the details."

"Well, the good news is you aren't far from where the man we're after is believed to be hiding. Do you think you can find your way into Sandy Shores?"

I check the fuel gauge. "Yeah, just about."

"Then I'll email you the details when you get into town. Put some pants on."

I'm going to ask another stupid question but Lester's already gone.

Sandy Shores is just the opposite side of the lake I can see from my vantage point. I cruise around slowly until I see some battered men's jeans and a blue short-sleeve work shirt on a washing line in an area outside a trailer home that resembles a makeshift yard. I grab them quickly and then dive back into the car and punch it. Driving barefoot is a pain in the a$$ though.

I pull up in the parking lot behind a 24/7 convenience store and my phone buzzes to let me know I have an email. I load up the picture and then read Lester's notes.

The target's one Keith Jared, wanted for jumping bail for a small time assault charge. Nobody's bothered that the guy skipped, that's small fry. What's really important is that he knows about a lucrative bookmaking operation out of East Los Santos, and has a habit of trying to make himself sound like a big man to the wrong people by mouthing off about stuff he should keep schtum about.

Lester's "client" wants to make sure he doesn't go giving the operation away to anyone that might try and muscle in because they depend on discretion and a turf war would be too costly, even if they won.

I take a few steps around in the burning dust, look around the place. It's mostly made of trailers and lean-tos. A gas station and a bar are the only permanent looking structures in one direction, the convenience store and a branch of Ammu-Nation the other. I'm tempted to go get some boots from the gun store but I have no cash, and you _don't_ mess with the clerk in a weapons store. Particularly when _you're_ unarmed.

The bar looks like a good place to start. It's not far, but the dust's hot and, after last night's rain, not pleasant to walk on either, so I drive on up and reverse-park to the right of the door in case I have to make a quick getaway.

There's a rag tag of people sat at the bar, mostly ignoring each other. They throw shifty glances in my direction, quickly look away too when I walk in. At the back of the place, four bikers are playing pool. Funny, cos there are no hogs parked outside. Damn it, no, there _was_ a black van which should have been a give-away. I wanna make it out before anyone tags me but I'm too late.

"Nice shoes ese," one of them taunts.

 _Ese_? He's even milkier white than _I_ am; I'm surprised he's not beetroot with sunburn.

His friends now divert their attention from the table. They see an easy target and they're wondering if I've got anything left to steal.

I point to his boots. "I was just thinking the same about yours. Holmes" That gets a chuckle from one of the bikers, but Milky's face gets serious. He moves to step towards me but the guy right at the back says "Connor," which stops him. He must be the leader, and now he's turned his attention to me. "That's your car outside?"

"Hell no," I admit.

"I'm curious. How can a man have a stolen car but no shoes, and why on _Earth_ would he come into a bar? I'm assuming you have no money with which to purchase a refreshing, cold beverage, although you look like you might be getting desperate for one. Am I right?"

Two things. One, this f***er's well spoken for a biker. Two, he's astute as well; I'm an alcoholic and I've already been dry for entirely too long. That's negatively impacting my productivity right now.

"I hoped someone might be interested in the wheels," I try.

"But you're a _thief_."

"Yeah, well, there's a market for anything."

He swirls his finger around so as to indicate all his buddies. "We don't like car thieves."

"You should take a look at it. I think I've done the owner a favour," I say, but I'm flanked now by Milky Conner and a pot-bellied greasy fellow who, without touching me, makes sure I'm herded closer to the pool table.

Now their leader looks at my face and grimaces. "Looks like somebody already tried to teach you a lesson today?"

The fourth biker is perched at the other side of the table, holding a pool cue. He's the chuckler and he's chuckling now. I have one nerve left and he's getting on it. "Looks like he's a slow learner," he pitches.

"Yes indeed," the well-spoken leader agrees, and then he calls out to the rest of the bar "we've got ourselves a car thief here, gentlemen. And _this_ is what The Lost _does_ with car thieves. You're welcome."

I've already helped myself to a red ball from the pool table which I bring up to block the first punch. Pot belly yelps and stumbles back, rubbing his broken knuckles. It hurts my hand a little bit too, but that doesn't stop me from cracking Milky Conner in the nose with it.

But then Chuckles cracks me over the head with his cue which breaks on impact and drops me to the floor.

Milky Conner stamps angrily for my right hand. I manage to shift it out the way just in time and I wrap my arms around his leg and bite into his calf, making him cry out and tumble back onto his a$$. That blocks Chuckles' path to me, buying me a little time. The leader strides around but I'm already scooting backwards, finding my feet and stumbling towards the door. One of the drinkers at the bar tumbles off his stool and I grab it, hold it out as some sort of shield. The biker pulls it from me easily, whips it towards me. I duck out of the way and it breaks into pieces as it hits the bar, but now he's closed the gap he grabs me and punches me in the face.

When the world makes sense again, they're dragging me towards their van, scraping my bare feet across the dust, scratching them up to hell.

Their windshield shatters a split second before the soundwave of a high-velocity scope rifle reaches us, making them stop and I'm dropped to the floor like a sack of mouldy potatoes, and then a mechanical voice booms from the cellphones in their pockets telling them to make themselves scarce; that there'll be no further warning.

I get a kick in the ribs from the leader who bends down and tells me "this ain't over sh*thead," before all of them scramble into the van and screech out from the parking lot.

Jesus Christ, I don't think I'm gonna survive until sunset. I'm struggling to stand up when a brunette in a metallic white T-shirt, black zippered leather pants and knee-boots strides into the parking lot. She clutches a scope rifle in one hand and drags me to my feet by the scruff of the neck with the other. She's not exactly slender, but she's not exactly fat either.

Put simply; f*** yeah.

"Thanks," I say when I'm on my feet. She huffs and turns away, checking through her scope that the bikers are still retreating while my phone buzzes angrily.

"Forget what I said earlier, the rumours are obviously false," Lester's nasal voice grates.

"Thanks for the cavalry. Who's the lady?"

"You don't need to know and if you know what's good for you, you won't try asking her. I'd say she's got more balls than you but it doesn't look like you have _any_."

"I don't know, I took out two of them with a pool ball," I say in my defence.

"How very heroic. You owe her for the bullet." And then Lester hangs up.

Walking back into the bar was fun. Everybody fell off their stools and scurried back. I couldn't help but grin. The… woman… behind the bar pulled out a sawn-off, pointed it in my direction and was about to say something along the lines of "you git on outta here," but I held up my phone with the picture of Keith Jared filling the screen to shut her up, gave her a (lopsided, bloody) smile, and slowly moved the phone around to show the screen to the rest of the patrons.

"Don't worry, I'll be gone just as soon as one of you fine folks tells me where I might find Keith Jared."

Silence. Stone faces all around. On cue, the brunette makes her entrance.

The… woman… swings her shotgun round to focus on her. The brunette gives the merest glance in her direction, but then faces down the bar patrons. The… woman… starts to shake. I pounce.

"Talk," I snap. The brunette very quickly snatches the sawn-off from her grip, in the same motion spins round it so it's not exactly pointed at her, but it's not pointed away from her either.

"Talk," I say, more softly.

"He ain't been in here for months an' he _ain't_ welcome here," the… woman… snarls.

It's subtle, but one of the drinker's curls his lip. I turn my attention to him. "Something to add there, fella?"

"Yeah, ah know that sack'o' _shee-it_ ," he spits. "Use'ta knock around with Tammy-Lyn, got her all f***ed up on the junk. Marge kicked him out for puttin' his hands on 'er. That was las' year, 'fore she got threw in the clink for knockin' over that _liquor_ store. 'f you find him at _her_ place, you be sure to give him a _beatin_ ' for _me_."

"Nice. You have an address?"

"'S'a trailer," he says. "Right along the road from the store she tried to rob, the one with the soda machine ousside."

True to my word, just like that, I leave. The brunette opens the shotgun, spills the shells on the floor and throws it back to the… woman… before striding out after me.

We spot the liquor store on a dirt road that runs along the lakefront. Two rednecks are drinking beer in the parking lot, one leaning against a BF Injection that's been souped up for off-roading with massive tractor tyres on the back, the other sitting side-saddle on a quad bike. No sign of our boy there, but it has the green Sprunk soda machine outside so we know it's the place.

The road takes us down past an abandoned restaurant with a faux ship's hull sticking out from the top until finally we come back to the bar and its surrounding shanty town of trailers and tin homes. We cruise a few times around the block in the "rental". The brunette doesn't say a word the whole drive, but she tore off the sagging headliner and threw it out the window right after she got in the car.

On our fourth trip round the town I spot something, clothes on a washing line in a makeshift backyard. I pull up the picture of Jared on my phone and check out the shirt; the one flapping on the line looks similar to the one he's wearing in the photo. I pull to the side of the road and the brunette slips out of the car, disappearing into the maze of rusting metal while I clamber over the fence and take a closer look at the clothes. Yep, they're a definite match. I creep up to the trailer now, peer in through the window but I can't see anything. I gently try the door; locked.

"What're you doin'," a woman demands from behind me, nearly making me soil myself in alarm. I whirl around to see a grey-haired old lady with a round belly and a dirty apron staring at me. "What you doin' at Tammy-Lyn's place? Lookin' to rob her while she ain't home? Or you jus' some _vagrant_ lookin' for a place to squat?"

I spread my hands, smile to show her I mean no harm. "I'm looking for a fellow, a Keith Jared. You seen him around here?"

"That no good sunnuva weasel, you a friend o' his you can get right on outta here _right now_ 'fore I call the cops."

"No, no." I smile again. "Jared's skipped bail. I wondered if he might've come here to hide. That's his shirt, no?"

She scowls at the clothes, then at me. "I ain't seen him. You ain't one a' the normal bounty hunters. You always work barefoot or you tryin' to make some crack at us bein' all _poor_ folk out here?"

"I, uh, had a difficult morning," I concede. "If you see him, I'd be grateful if you'd give me a call. Have you got a pen so I can give you my number?"

"What, you don't got a card?"

Damn it, this woman's astute. "No… like I said, tough morning."

She stares at me a second longer, then shuffles off back inside her own trailer. I wonder if she's forgotten me and stand awkwardly wondering what to do before, finally, she comes back out clutching a pad and pencil. I give her my cell number, thank her, and make my way back to the "rental".

A second or two later the brunette slides in leisurely beside me. "Now what," she demands.

"Now you're gonna buy me some damn breakfast."

There's a hot dog stand right across from the convenience store I pulled into when I first arrived in Sandy Shores. While I'm eating, the brunette goes to the gun store and when she returns she heavily drops a pair of hiking boots on the table, nearly squashing my third hot dog. I don't know how, but she's got the right size. "I'm taking all this out of your cut," she spits, then returns to wait in the passenger seat of the "rental".

She's trying to be cold but, I gotta be honest, she's getting me hot. I pull on the boots, take my time finishing my food and my soda and then I stroll back over to the car.

"Old bitch ain't gonna call you," she says as I get in.

Ah. There it is. She's been trying to hide it but she either is or has been Involved. As in, with one of the street gangs that plague the inner city.

"Not until he's on the move," I reply.

"Huh? What makes you think she'd grass him when he's outside the trailer?"

"The clothes on the line," I say. "They're the same ones from the photo. So they're likely the clothes he had on when he went to the clink-"

"How's this relevant," she interrupts.

"Let me finish," I argue. "Unless Tammy-Lyn has a new guy living in her trailer, which I doubt from what we learned at the bar, she isn't likely to have any other men's clothes there. If there _is_ another guy there..."

"Then _he_ wouldn't stand for some ex coming around and taking _his_ clothes," she concedes.

"Right. So either he's inside her trailer while his only set of clothes dries or else he's walking around naked. Ergo, 'old bitch' knows he's in there. It was clear she didn't like him, but I think she's still trying to look after Tammy-Lyn and her place."

"Then why aren't we busting the door down and dragging his bare ass back to civilisation? I _hate_ this hick sh*t."

"Discretion," I remind her. "That's why they called Lester, right? They don't want anyone looking too hard at Keith Jared or at what happens to him."

"Right," she agrees, getting it. "Nor do they want him running his mouth."

My phone buzzes. I check it, don't recognise the number.

"Alright, we're on" I say and ease the car away from parked, head West, back towards the liquor store.

The brunette spots Jared walking across the dirt ahead of us, nearly there. The rednecks are still hanging around outside.

"Stop the car," the brunette instructs. I want to argue, but I already know it'll be pointless. She slips out and instructs me to go pick him up before he opens his trap. I pull up into the lot where Jared is already talking animatedly to the two guys. Bet you can't guess what he's talking about?

I've already drawn the attention of the two rednecks. The guy leaning against the BF Injection has a bottle of beer in his hand. The quad biker has a handgun tucked into the back of his pants and the two of them are stood flanking Jared so that he's caught between them, the BF and the wall of the store. They're all suddenly very quiet as they watch me. BF guy asks Jared if he knows me. Jared shakes his head slightly, but all three sets of eyes stay on me.

So I make a show of staggering across the lot, stumbling, using the wall for balance, head my way past 'em and tumble through the door at the front of the store, while the three of them start to laugh.

The rednecks whoop and holler encouragement as I stagger my way in and I squint back at them with my most humble sh*t-eating grin.

There's a tough-looking native-American at the counter. He warns me right from the off that he's got his eye on me, so I go right up and ask him what he knows about the rednecks outside. Turns out they have a penchant for trouble and a tendency to scare off most of his other customers that might actually _buy_ stuff rather than shoplifting it. There's about ten of 'em that gang together but these two seem to be the main stirrers. So I ask him, help me help you.

"I don't want trouble," he complains.

"Me neither," I assure him.

He sighs, clearly not believing me. "What do you need," he asks, exhaustedly.

"Chase me out," I say, before lifting a bottle of vodka and a fire extinguisher, and pushing my way backwards through the door. I stumble and blink in the light, for the rednecks' benefit and the shopkeeper chases me to the door hurling abuse, stopping when he gets to the threshold and seeing the rednecks falling about laughing at me. "Whatcha got there," Quad Bike jeers as I stagger triumphantly towards my car.

I cradle the bottle to me and bark "mine!"

BF guy turns his head to the storekeeper and says "hey Bill, he's got yer _fire_ exting'isher. Ain't that like a health code v'olation or summin?"

"Yeah," Quad Bike adds, following me. "We don't wanna get burned down while we _buyin' beer_ in your 'stablishment." Now he turns his attention to me. "Come on drunk, you gotta give back what you stole."

I drop the vodka, hoping the bottle doesn't break and give Quad Bike a face full of foam from the extinguisher. Give him a sharp kick while he's down and force him over so I can get the gun.

BF guy has now pulled his piece and his shot hits the extinguisher, knocking it out of my hand as foam sprays out of the hole he's just put in it. I fire back but I miss and now he's grabbed Jared and using him as a human shield as he backs the both of them back towards the Injection. "You _ain't_ takin' him," BF guy yells. "He's told us all about his little scam and it's _just_ the thing me an' the boy's…"

The front and rear windows of his Injection shatter and BF guy falls down dead as the sound of the shot reaches us, pinning Jared to the ground under his corpse.

Quad Bike struggles to push himself up onto his feet, utters "sh*t," so I'm forced to pop one into his skull too.

Bill the shopkeeper really loses his sh*t and starts yelling then but I'm too busy pulling a catatonic Jared out from under BF guy whilst struggling with my own conscience.

The sound of approaching motorcycles alerts us all. Billy disappears back into his shop, turns the sign to closed and pulls the shutters down. Jared's about to say something so I knock him out and try not to panic as I drag him to the front of the Injection – the engine in this thing is in the back, so the trunk is under the hood. Lucky for me, BF guy's one of those morons that kept his keys in the sunvisor. I grab 'em, pop the hood and throw Jared in, then slam it shut.

I look back to where the bottle of Vodka fell. It's under the spent extinguisher, shattered into pieces. What a waste.

I hop into the Injection, fire it up, plant my right foot and get it roaring across the plains just as The Lost MC start to appear en masse on the horizon. They've got speed on me, but I've got big wheels and offroad capability so I keep my foot hard on the floor and the compass on the dashboard pointed vaguely South, ignoring Jared as he starts to bang and shout under the hood. In the rearview, I see The Lost stop at the liquor store.

Then the "rental" explodes.

Who the hell rigged it? Lester? The brunette?

Or could it have been Madrazo?

There's a ding against the rear bodywork that sends me dropping forward in the driver's seat. A second round hits, then a third, but then I'm out of their range. I keep my foot on the floor and aim to lose myself in the hills.

Sh*t. Bill the shopkeeper saw my face. It probably won't take 'em long to work out who I am. Cold dread grips me, but I can't let that slow me down. I need to square up with Lester, find Candace and get the hell back out of town.

The sun's going down, scorching the clouds pink as the city rolls into view over the grassy hills I'm driving over. Traffic in the city will be starting to let up, which is good because the BF isn't exactly subtle. Lester's lock up is on the outskirts of East L.S. so I don't have to roll through many streets before I'm pulling in to a truck yard and round to the back.

The brunette meets me there, leaning against a large black SUV. I stay silent, give her a nod and get a sour face in return as she pulls on black leather gloves and draws a very high-calibre handgun.

I've got the redneck's pistol in my hand and together we quietly flank the front of the BF. I lean in and pop the hood and Jared kicks out. We'd been expecting it so we're not in range and when he stumbles out he comes face to face with the brunette's cannon. If he didn't soil himself on the ride over here, he definitely has done now.

The brunette steps back to the SUV, picks up a black bag from the hood and throws it to me. I force it over Jared's head and then we force him to the floor and bind him with zip ties before she drags him back to his feet and into the lockup.

Lester himself gets out the back of the SUV, limps towards me using his walking stick to hold himself up. "You must be the only a$$hole I've ever hired that could f*** up making breakfast cereal."

I tilt my head, maybe. "I did what you wanted."

"Hmm, by "did what you wanted" you mean bought him here then yes, just about. But now there's a bunch of crazy moonshiners that will be looking into what happened to their brethren, not to mention The Lost MC wondering why somebody would bring a car bomb out to Sandy Shores. I told you this was supposed to be _discreet_."

He leans into the SUV and brings out a small, battered suitcase which he hands to me. I pop the clips and peek inside to find a new, albeit cheap "entry level" black suit, shirt, clean socks and underwear and a pair of combat boots. There's also another 9mm, this one a squat professional model, five full-metal clips and what looks like a couple of grand in cash.

I've picked up the bundle to gauge it when Lester says "there would have been more but you racked up a few 'expenses'."

I put it back in, refasten the case and nod a thanks. "What have you got on the Lieutenant?"

"Not too much. Your little meet 'n' greet yesterday seems to have encouraged him to pull his socks up and keep his mouth shut. He's spent most of the day doing his actual job."

"Do you know who he's currently working for," I ask.

" _Besides_ the LSPD, he seems to have multiple sources of income so clearly he's in more than one pocket, but I'm not able to pinpoint the source or sources. My assistant Paige is taking a closer look but it's all shell-companies and offshore funds."

"Was that Paige," I ask, nodding towards the lock-up.

"It was not and I told you to let that go," Lester snaps. "It's in your best interests as well as mine and because she's a dangerous psychopath, not because I have any opportunity to… y'know…"

"Yeah, alright," I stop him. Sometimes you need to keep Lester on point. It's in your best interests. As a hacker, he's gold, but he's a bit… well…

Yeah, anyway, the Lieutenant is involved in more than a little bit of extra-curricular activity. That helps my theory that he might be trying to get out of Madrazo's clutches, but who'd have the sway to help him pull that off and, more to the point, who'd go to the trouble?

It'd have to be somebody pretty local because otherwise they'd want Feds, not cops, however highly decorated they might be. Only one guy comes to mind that makes the sort of noise that absolutely, positively confirms he's not making that sort of noise.

"What do you know about Devin Weston," I ask Lester.

"Enough to leave well alone," Lester says. "You know he's a significant investor in Merryweather Private Security?"

No, I did not know that. "Of course," I say. "Does he have any beef with Martin Madrazo?"

"Nothing public. I'll see what I can turn up. You should find somewhere safe to lie low until I have something more for you and my associates and I make arrangements for poor Billy."

"Billy… Bill the shopkeeper? He's dead?"

"You left The Lost a major breadcrumb so we had to make sure they couldn't coax him out of his store."

How… no, I don't want to know. This isn't what I expected of Lester. Sure, he's dangerous with a keyboard, but I didn't think…

Oh, sh*t. I don't know what else to say so I turn around and walk away.

"Hey," Lester calls. "You can't leave this heap of crap blocking my entry!"

I ignore him and keep walking.


	3. Chapter 3

I pay a frankly scandalous $130 cash for a room at a run-down hotel on Mission Row in Downtown LS, but I'm not going to be sleeping there; I use the room to shower, bandage my chest up, change into the clothes Lester gave me and hide the two pistols I now have on my person. The spare ammo goes into an inside pocket in the suit jacket. I keep a few hundred bucks in one of the pockets of my pants and stuff half of what's left of the two grand Lester paid me through a small tear I've made in the jacket's lining.

Then I leave the hotel and go to the bus station where I stuff the suitcase Lester gave me into a locker. Inside it is the other half of the cash, the clothes I'd been wearing, because I don't know I won't end up stranded naked again, and some notes I've scribbled on a sheet of hotel-branded paper about the email that bought me back to Los Santos and about my last 48 hours here. Call it an unsolved case file for anyone who finds it to pick up the thread if the worst should happen and I don't get to finish what I've started here.

I take a bus now, but it's not going to be my long-term transportation solution; contrary to Lester's instructions, I'm not planning on lying low. I need to have a more personal conversation with the Lieutenant but first I need some wheels that blend in a little better than the now-extinct "rental" or the BF Injection I left on Lester's driveway and I have a good idea where I'm gonna get them.

I grab dinner at the Burger Shot on Prosperity Street in Vespucci Canals, a stone's throw out of the Korean Little Seoul district, raise a soda silently to poor old Bill the shopkeeper who didn't want any trouble. Folks are used to people doing weird sh*t in Burger Shot so nobody so much as glances in my direction. I'm tempted to pick up some alcohol to soothe my pounding head and calm the shakes from the liquor store on the corner. They're not betraying me too much yet, but I feel them. My body's yearning for booze. This might be the worst time to try and kick the habit, but it's definitely not the best time for me to be stumbling around half-cut, so instead I hit up a drugstore and get a hundred aspirin. I resist the urge to down the lot with my soda and just pop four.

Around 10pm it happens. I've wandered East from the Burger Shot to the corner of Prosperity Street. It's quite upmarket during the day, but when the sun sets it's a different story.

I think I might have said something bold earlier on, like "if I could do it all again I wouldn't change a thing" but there is in fact one change that's long, long overdue.

Right on cue, there he is; Harlan Schultz, ace attorney, in his brand new company Benefactor Schafter. Schultz has himself a trophy wife addicted to shopping and painkillers. He keeps her busy with both so she's either oblivious or too numb to care about his abuse of her son.

I'd been about ten footsteps from punching him in the face and busting him five years ago. The Lieutenant stopped me, told me it wasn't worth my career. Told me _he'd_ deal with it.

Now I see to my horror the Lieutenant _didn't_ deal with it and in the intervening years, it's gotten _worse_.

At first I think it's just another drug-addicted working girl stumbling on her heels to Schultz's car, but it's not. It's his stepson Josh, only now Josh calls himself Jessica and works the streets after dark in a miniskirt and fishnet thigh-highs.

Schultz is revelling in just how untouchable he is because he's p*mping Josh/Jessica just across the street from the Vespucci Police Precinct. My blood is already boiling and I have to close my eyes and remind myself of the reason I'm down here so I don't go doing anything stupid. Well, anything more stupid than I'd already got planned, anyway.

I watch as Josh/Jessica hands a bunch of cash to Schultz and he/she doesn't look happy. A second later, Schultz slaps the back of Josh/Jessica's head, slaps him/her again, and then reaches across, opens the passenger door and shoves poor Josh/Jessica back out. I've seen enough and so has my iFruit smartphone. Now I stride up to the car, lean into the open door and call loudly "Harlan! Hey my man, long time. What's up?" To Josh/Jessica, I add "hey Josh, looking good." Then I slide into the passenger seat Josh had just been forced out of.

"The f*** are you doing Harvey, you f***? I can have the cops on me in _seconds_ ," Schultz shouts.

"Do you know what cloud computing is, Harlan," I calmly ask in reply. At least, I'm aiming for calm. "It's all the rage at the moment. You take a video on your phone, like this one here." I show him the footage I've just got of him and Josh. "And just like that, it's uploaded to the cloud. You know, it's not a _real_ cloud, it's just someone else's server? I bet you can't guess whose computer _this_ little blockbuster got uploaded to?"

He grips the wheel tightly, grits his teeth, knowing full well the certain hacker who'll be watching the video right now. Yeah, maybe the cops won't touch Schultz, but if this gets splashed all over the Weazel news network then neither will his employer, or any other law firm, nor _any_ of his clients.

You can be above the law, but your reputation _always_ precedes you.

"The f*** do you _want,_ " he demands.

I look around the interior of his Benefactor. "This is nice," I say, stroking the leather trim.

"It's a _company car_ , idiot," he snarls.

"Then I'll keep my gas receipts for you," I say.

"And how do you suppose I explain _walking_ to work?"

I pat his belly. "Looks like you could use the exercise," I say. "Healthy living's _in_ this season, ain't it?"

He stares at me a minute more. And then reaches to open his door.

"One more thing," I say, stopping him. "I know I don't have to tell you that if I end up dead, or arrested, Lester will have this touching little home movie released to every major news outlet in San Andreas. But you touch Josh once more, you raise your _voice_ to him, you _say_ anything unkind, you even _look_ at him the wrong way…"

I have to stop because I'm getting angry now. He sees it and slides out of the car, scared for his physical safety now as well as his reputation, and begins the long, shameful walk home out of this neighbourhood. Maybe he'll report the car as stolen, but I'll pull the same license plate trick I did with the rental.

I slide over and shout out the open passenger door to Josh/Jessica who's stood cowering in the shadow of the parking lot beyond the curb "you wanna ride somewhere Josh? Home? A friend's house?"

He/she stands unsure for a minute. Then, like a lost lamb, he/she timidly, slowly, totters towards the car and gets in.

"Seatbelt," I tell him/her. When he/she's clicked in safe, I ask "home?"

A shake of the head.

"Somewhere safe," I ask, quietly.

I get a very slight nod as a solitary tear rolls down his/her cheek. This isn't the _last_ visit I'll be making to Shultz before I leave town.

Before going to see The Lieutenant (it's still a bit early anyhow), I take Josh/Jessica to a Suburban clothing store. For whatever reason, it's open 24 hours, but we're the only ones in there and the clerk seems surprised to see us. I get an odd look from her as I leave Josh/Jessica to pick out some stuff, but I've gotta nip out to another shop to buy something I'm gonna need later. When I get back, he/she's picked a couple of pairs of baggy jeans, a couple of matching hoodies and T-shirts and a chunky pair of work boots. Definitely Josh now.

He gets changed at the store after I've purchased the stuff for him, but puts the clothes he was wearing into the shopping bag and brings them with him. Schultz left his company credit card in the car so, actually, _he_ bought Josh's new stuff. About time he did something right by the kid.

In the bathroom of a Cluckin' Bell, Josh washes away most of the makeup, all aside from the eyeliner, and then after he's eaten I take him to a safe house. Hopefully he'll get his head straight. I'm not talking about his orientation, that's for him to work out for himself. You might think I'm a dinosaur for my methods, but I don't begrudge a person's right to be whoever they want to be, so f*** you, you judgemental pr*ck.

At just after midnight I pull up outside The Vanilla Unicorn. The Lieutenant's car is there, parked so as not to draw attention to itself in the dark around the corner, which makes it easy for me to slash all the tyres without the bouncer hassling me. Once that's done, all I've got to do is watch and wait.

My phone rings. "You have a very odd idea of lying low," Lester grates.

"I wouldn't be in town if I didn't," I admit.

"Schultz is behaving himself. For now. Tell me you aren't going to do anything stupid with the Lieutenant."

I stay silent.

"Alright," he sighs. "Talk me through your plan and I'll see if I can make it less suicidal."

After I get done talking to Lester, I go back to waiting. 3am comes and goes. I worry about losing my cover of shadow.

And then he staggers out. He's so drunk he can't possibly be capable of driving so, sure enough, he staggers right to his car. It takes him a while to realise why it doesn't look right and by the time he gets to cursing "sh*t," I'm behind him and throwing him into Schultz's trunk. I hightail it out of the lot in reverse, don't stop to put it in drive until I'm halfway across the road and then punch it. A Benefactor never does anything so vulgar as roaring away squealing it's tyres, and instead smoothly distances us from the club, building speed like a comet getting caught in the gravity of a gas giant. Lieutenant Gray makes a few banging sounds in the back and then throws up. Violently, from the sound of it. After that he goes very quiet, but I can smell him from the driver's seat, so bad I have to wind down the windows.

Bad luck, Harlan.

The drive out takes me about forty minutes, but then I've got a half hour hike to my vantage point. Once I'm in position, I call Lester to give him the signal. He lifts the signal block that he's put on the Lieutenant's phone and remotely pops the trunk on the Benefactor. The Lieutenant kicks the trunk lid open and clambers out, covered in sick, clutching his revolver in one hand, his phone in the other. It rings while he's trying to dial out. Lester connects me and him, and is keeping a recording going. I'm wearing an earpiece so I don't have to hold the phone which is good cos my hands are otherwise busy.

"Good morning Ray," I say.

"You sunnuvabi…" he starts. I silence him with a shot from the scope rifle I'm watching him through which hits the ground about five feet away from him. "You can't get away with this Harvey! You're either a dead man or you're going to Bolingbroke for the rest of your natural!"

"Who've you got undercover right now, Ray?"

"What's this about Harvey? You trying to figure out who framed you, huh?"

"No, but nice of you to admit it," I reply. "Do I need to repeat the question, or…" I let off another round; it hits much closer this time, making him curse.

"Undercover, a$$hole? Let's see. I got about ten guys in Grove Street. Only about three of 'em know each other. Another in The Lost to replace the one they killed last week. They killed the one before _that_ last month, another a few weeks before that. Two guys posing as street racers…"

"Any girls," I interrupt.

"Plenty. Five in Vinewood getting me dirt on producers that like to get underage performers on their casting couches. Another, what, half a dozen working various angles for Vice? Half the crew in Grove Street..."

"Any with Madrazo?"

"What, do you think I'm crazy?"

"No Ray, you're smart. Too smart. But you're compromised too…"

He yells at me now. " _You're_ compromised all the way up your a$$hole out of your _throat_ you hypocritical f***…"

Another round, I think. This one pitches up an angry spray of dirt from the ground between his feet.

"You're in more than one pocket. Which one are you trying to get out of, Ray?"

"Why don't you come and ask me to my face," he spits. "You gonna kill me Shaun? Come and do it like a man. Don't matter if I'm alive or dead, there's _nobody_ that has any doubt you took the haul from the truck heist. And I _can't_ clear your name."

Ouch. That hurt. Can't or won't, I want to demand, ask him to pick which of his limbs he doesn't want anymore, but that's not what I'm here for.

"Candace," I say. "Where is she?"

"Who?"

I kneecap him. He drops to the floor screaming.

"Candace Butler," I demand.

"She's," he splutters. "She's not one of mine!"

F***.

Through the scope I watch Ray take a couple of wild pot shots with the revolver, then clutch again at his ruined knee. I could press it with a 'don't lie to me Ray,' but he's not lying, and I just laid out what I'm here for.

I should kill him before he can let that slip, so I tighten my finger on the trigger.

The brunette picks me up. She doesn't speed, but she doesn't slouch getting us back into the city. Today she's wearing a short white cotton off-the-shoulder T-shirt dress and a pair of pink heels with straps that wrap around her legs all the way up to her calves. Part of me's happy to see her, but I can't concentrate on that right now so I just shut up and let her drive, which I've got the distinct impression that she prefers anyway. She's got a pretty bada$$ bright yellow Warrener with matching yellow wheels and a black viper stripe running from the hood, across the roof and down the trunk. Clearly, she lets her actions do her talking.

There's something on the radio about a shootout at McKenzie airfield that may be possibly connected to a recent heist on a Fleeca Bank branch but I'm not listening to that because Lester's complaining in my left ear about how I've given him a major headache already this morning.

"I'm sending somebody to patch up the Lieutenant's knee and keep him out of sight for a while, but it's not going to be long before his absence rattles some cages," he tells me.

"Can you figure out who Butler's handler is, if not him?"

"No, you're going to have to do that yourself. Yet again I've pulled some strings for you and got you an in. Just make sure you do the job you're there for as well as pursuing your own vendetta and I'll get a finder's fee that should square you and me."

"Alright, what's the job?"

"Stick with your current driver. You'll find out later when she takes you meet the client's representative. Right now you're going to get some sleep, and I mean Get Some Sleep. I can't afford for you to go in half-a$$ed, if you and blow this one it'll blow up in my face."

Lester hangs up – seriously, he's not one for goodbyes. I try to stay silent for a while, but I'm not really all that good at it.

"So, how do you know Lester," I ask.

The brunette grimaces. "How do _you_ know him, cop?"

"Ex-cop," I correct her but she looks decidedly unimpressed by the distinction. "I ran into him during an investigation a few years ago. Initially he was a suspect, but he gave me the perp I wanted in a nice, tidy package, was glad to be rid of the association. After that, I tried to sign him up as a CI, but he wouldn't go for it, so I started, uh, contracting him instead. He makes a few bucks and I don't try to advance my career busting a very capable hacker that's worth far more out on the streets."

"Now he's helping you find some other cop."

"Yeah."

She drives for a few minutes before surprising me with another question. "Why bother?"

I look at her and she goes on. "Didn't all your cop buddies throw you under the bus for that truck job? Why would you stick your neck out for them?"

"She's different," I say.

I can see she wants to ask more, but in the end, we both leave it at that.

The motel she drops me at is already paid for and there's a key already waiting for me to collect under the name Lester gave me to use, so all I have to do is scoop that up, go into the room they've assigned me, and sleep. Too simple for an a$$hole like me. The place is a block away from Jerome's liquor store, but it wouldn't be wise to go back there. I know I'm only a half-hour walk from South Los Santos Liquor too, but it just seems like too much effort.

So, for once, I do what I'm told. I go to sleep. And I dream.

Madrazo's goon, the one in the glasses, draws his switchblade down Candace's chest and she cries out.

I see the armored truck driving past, see the three masked guys looking out at me as I wave them through the roadblock under the bridge. But they're dead already. Blood pours from the holes in the foreheads of their hockey masks as they roll by, flooding the cab and, as I watch, the truck fades and disappears.

Floating suits with automatic rifles speed along the motel corridor to my room but I'm watching helpless, disembodied. They kick the door down and shoot at me, stand blocking the door but I can't even move towards them to try and slip past. The floor turns to tar and my legs don't work so I'm stuck on the ground and all I can do is try and twist and writhe out of the way of the slow-motion bullets that get caught in the tar with me and try to eat my flesh with gnashing piranha jaws. Slowly the tar pulls me down into it as the piranha bullets eat me alive and then I'm stood outside Candace's back door but I have no gun. The rain is pouring down tar and blood. I don't want to but I push the door open and struggle inside.

Candace still screams. Bill the shopkeeper watches in the corner and shakes his head slowly.

I'm in court and I'm naked. The judge pounds her gavel and yells "guilty!" Blood flows from the wound in my chest that I got at Madrazo's abandoned barn as everybody riots and shouts hatred at me.

Everybody except the brunette, sitting with her arms folded, watching, unimpressed as fire consumes the courthouse and burns my skin but I still can't move.

My knee explodes and I'm strapped to the lethal injection table. I look up to see the Lieutenant with his revolver which he now lifts to the bleeding hole in my hockey mask. Schultz stands behind him, holding Jessica, forcing her to watch.

I crawl across the room as piranha bullets chew my body, dragging my useless knee behind me as I crawl desperately towards the bottle of vodka. I'm nearly there when it explodes and the glass shreds my outstretched hand, blasting away the skin and leaving only naked bone.

The tar in the floor of the motel room swallows me, sucks me in right up to the neck and as it wraps around my head, I see Ericsson, my former partner in Homicide, getting swallowed right down there with me. He's saying something but his mouth makes no sound and I can't read his lips because I'm drowning in tar and it's gluing my eyes shut.

The well-spoken Lost MC leader hangs Bill the shopkeeper over the pool table while his buddies kick me on the ground. Still I can't get up out of the tar.

Candace is still screaming, but it's in short bursts now.

I realise they aren't screams; they're electronic.

The dream melts away. My phone is ringing.

I'm sweating and my throat burns cold. I'm shaking and it takes a few desperate fumbled attempts to answer the damn phone, and then I can't find words so I have to simply grunt into the receiver. My chest, where Madrazo's thug cut me, burns like hell and it's oozing a little, and my face feels three times bigger than it should.

"I'm still waiting for my _money_ , a$$hole," Madrazo shouts. That wakes me up, but only slightly.

"Gurgh… Money," I groan, still disoriented.

"It's been twenty four hours. You have twenty four more and then I expect a development." And then the phone goes dead.

I'm shivering now. I draw the bedsheet around myself, sweating and yet freezing in the stifling room, not convinced yet that this isn't some other part of the dream.

Do you ever wake up violently and get the feeling that you've just dreamed something important, but the more you try to recall it the further it slips from your memory?

I spend some time, maybe twenty minutes, maybe three hours, figuring out how the coffee percolator works. I drink three cups, black, no sugar. Then I lay down and go back to sleep. Well, pass out. No dreams this time, no distance of time between sinking onto the bed and waking back up, but it was no more relaxing.

When the brunette knocks on my door at around seven I've already had a delivery of fresh bandages, painkillers and antiseptic from the apothecary in Little Seoul and I'm showered, dressed and ready to go.

"You look like sh*t," she tells me.

"And you're just as sunny as ever," I retort. She's wearing a black skirt suit with a white shirt and black tie now. Black platform heels. Leather driving gloves. Damn, I give up trying to get a reading on this girl. "You got a name, or what," I ask her as she leads me out to the parking lot where the yellow Warrener's waiting for us.

"Or what," she replies, sharply, but then adds "what have you been calling me in your head?"

"The Brunette," I say.

She tries to hide it but that makes her smile. "I like that," she admits.

"Gonna tell me how you know Lester?"

She tilts her head, sucks in her bottom lip deciding how or if she's going to answer. "He just latched onto me after I'd been in town a couple of weeks. Told me I'd been making trouble, and then started pointing me in the direction of the trouble he wanted me to cause instead. And he pays, so…"

"I like your car," I say, just to have something to say.

"Thanks," she replies. "After I started making stupid amounts of money I just started splashing it on stuff."

"Stupid money? With Lester?"

"Through various means, cop," she says, icily.

"Sorry."

"Yeah. Me too," she says, softer. "Game face on. We're here."

We pull around the back of a luxury apartment tower and head into its underground car park. She parks the Warrener between a souped-up Obey saloon and an equally souped-up lime green Kuruma. There's a few more heavily modified cars and a collection of bikes down here before the parking lot gives way to the usual selection of bland German and Japanese sedans, so I get the impression that the good stuff is all hers.

We take an elevator up and then we're met at the door by a guy who lets us into an apartment I probably couldn't afford even if I _had_ ripped off the armored truck.

He greets The Brunette with a fist bump, says "hope this goes better than the last one." Then he turns his attention to me. "What's this?"

"The replacement," The Brunette says. He looks at me for a few seconds, then back at her. "Lester vouched for him," she says. "He's good."

He looks at me for a few seconds more and then stands aside so we can come in.

He leads us through to a room off the side that's been decked out seemingly entirely for planning complex high-level jobs. What has Lester gotten me into here?

Two other guys are already in there waiting. One of them nods a greeting at The Brunette and I as we enter. The other one is wearing a denim Sherpa jacket and immediately stands out as the one in charge. He tells us we're right on time, pulls two laundry bags from a coat rail, reads the labels and hands one to The Brunette, the other to me. I stand there awkwardly, wondering where I'm meant to change. The Brunette goes to a table at the side of the room, lays the bag down and starts undressing right there. Okay, whatever, I join her, trying not to get caught glancing in her direction and get changed into an LSPD uniform, zip my own clothes into the bag. She zips her clothes away and then the pair of us could pass as actual cops.

While we're dressing, denim Sherpa instructs us that we're supposed to be collecting the prisoner transit schedule from the Mission Row police station. The Brunette and I share a look. He goes on to tell us that dressing as cops won't be much use if we pull up in a civilian vehicle so we need to get hold of a police cruiser. The Brunette heads on out and I follow her.

She hands me an envelope and tells me it's "from Lester."

I open it and pull out a USB thumbnail drive. All I've got to do is plug it in. I'm about to say something else, but she's already calling 911 and reports a disturbance at the Posonby's Clothing store about a block East of our location.

"I'll buy you as much time as I can, but I'm getting paid for delivering the schedule," she says as we walk over to the store. I nod my understanding.

"You sure you're up to this? I can't afford for you to blow this," she demands.

I'm a little out of breath, I have to admit. Must be the withdrawal. "Let's just get this done," I say.

We're walking through an alleyway when we see the patrol car come to a stop, sirens blaring, outside Posonby's. We quicken our pace now to make sure we get to the car before the cops come back out of the store, and we manage it. They're just coming out as we reach it. I have to turn away and breathe hard for a few seconds.

"Hey," the first cop greets us. "You answering the 211, it's a Code 12," he says.

I straighten up and moan "damn kids hoax calling," before The Brunette's confusion can give us away. A '211' is an armed robbery. 'Code 12' means false alarm.

"That or the gangbangers keeping us looking the wrong way," throws in the cop's partner. They step past The Brunette now and are looking me over. I'm still breathing pretty heavy. "You okay there, old-timer?"

The Brunette knocks the first one out with her nightstick, clean and clinical, so that the second one hesitates for a second, unsure of what's happening before realisation hits. He goes for his gun then but I've already got mine drawn and on him. He starts to argue, maybe to plead. He'll be okay. Last thing we need is two dead cops. The Brunette knocks him out too, then we take their radios and their guns, put 'em in the trunk of the cruiser and cuff 'em together, then off we go to the precinct at Mission Row.

I'm in no state for driving and now it's not just The Brunette that's wondering whether I'm actually in any state for _anything_. I roll the window down and just watch as the city rolls by. It becomes hypnotic.

I'm feeling travel sick, or maybe just sick in general, by the time we get to the Mission Row station, but at the same time my adrenaline is starting to kick in. I manage to walk, to even appear normal, as we walk calmly up the steps into the station and through a door on the right like we're just two cops going into the station. There's a small office to the right and we head inside. The Brunette rifles through some documents and then snaps the prisoner transit schedule off the wall while I plug the USB device into the desktop computer.

She's unbuttoned the flap over the holster and has her hand on the grip of her pistol. I draw my piece and put it on my knee as I sit down at the desk and we watch as the device automatically uploads itself to the network, locates and decrypts the Undercover Personnel files and begins downloading. You've seen this a thousand times in movies so you don't need me to tell you how we watched it anxiously, getting more unsettled by the second until we were jumping at every little noise.

In all, it took under ninety seconds, but it felt like nine hours. Then I snagged the device, pocketed it, and we made for the door.

"Weapon," she hissed, reminding me to holster it. We tried to walk out calmly, but we were both amped on adrenaline and all but jogged down the steps and raced away in the patrol car.

Again, she drives.

It took a while before I realised we weren't headed back to the apartment building. "Where we going," I ask her.

"We need to torch the car," she replies. "Orders."

"Hold on, there's two cops in the trunk," I complain.

"I'm considering making it three," she snaps. Then "will you just chill the f*** out? I'm not a _complete_ psycho."

We park up near Grove Street. Then she pops the trunk and aims her gun at the two cops. I want to argue, but a mix of nausea and survival instinct hold me back; instead I watch as she instructs them to strip, gun in one hand, a straight razor in the other. They pull off their uniforms as much as they can with their hands bound together; she helps with the razor until both men are naked. They realise where they are and plead with us not to leave them still cuffed together like this, but we ignore them and climb back into the car.

Sometime later we pull up under a bridge near a waiting getaway car. I'd tell you where but I was wigging out most of the drive. My head pounds and I'm noticeably shaking as I help her pour gasoline over the car, and then she lights it, we get in the other car and drive away. We hear it explode behind us.

A few minutes later, I tell her she has to pull over, _now_ , and I lean out the passenger door and throw my guts up violently out onto the curb while she demands angrily what the f*** my problem is.


	4. Chapter 4

Part 4 : Shaun Harvey

Wearing the uniform triggered some memories, and I dream again.

It's 2008. Ericsson sits behind the wheel with me riding shotgun in his unmarked Vapid Stanier. Ray's behind Ericsson in the back and there's another cop, something Verzynski, next to him. We're parked looking at the bridge with the underpass through which the truck will be able to cut through unseen to the highway which is where I'll be stationed with my roadblock. All I'd need to do is roust the homeless campers under the bridge to clear the path so there's no casualties, and that's just a case of scaring them away with a semi-potent pipe b*mb on a cell phone trigger and some Chinese firecrackers. We're creating apparent terror attacks all over the city to cause confusion. Some are red herrings, others are very specifically placed to make sure the truck gets a clear route to where we need it to go.

Return to my post once the truck's through and, well, sorry Lieutenant, I had a situation so I had to come up with a solution on the fly.

Easy ten thousand bucks, right?

Ericsson has a bright red leaking hole in his forehead. In fact, as I look at him, his face turns into the hockey mask they found the dead heist crew wearing. Now under the bridge where the homeless people should be is the pile of dead bodies in the hockey masks and black coveralls they blamed on me.

"Where's the truck Shaun," Ericsson asks me.

I can't answer because the blood pouring from the hole in his head is starting to flood the car. I look back at the Lieutenant.

"I can't help you Harvey," he growls.

"Where's the truck Shaun," Ericsson repeats as the blood level rises above my knees.

"You need to find the truck," he goes on.

I look back towards where the bodies were piled under the bridge and see Candace Butler, bloodied and screaming.

I turn back towards Ericsson. He's not there anymore; it's Madrazo. But then the blood fills the car, drowning me and I wake up.

I slowly come around, not feeling quite as sick. I'm still shaky, but it seems to have abated. I convalesce for what feels like a long time before I get to wondering where the hell I am.

I try to stand and realise I'm cuffed by my ankle to the bed as the chain pulls taut.

What the hell?

I look around and appear to be in the bedroom of an expensive apartment. The noise of the chain brings The Brunette down the stairs. "You're awake," she announces. I nod, but my head hurts to do so. She points beyond me to the bedside table and says "Xanax," then to her left and says "shower." Then she unlocks the cuff around my ankle and heads back upstairs.

I spend a long time in the shower, trying different temperatures for one that makes me feel any better. None do, so instead I try to bring back the events of the previous night.

In the end she didn't bother taking me with her back to the apartment building. Or if she did, I don't remember it.

I think I threw up a few times, but I don't hurt any more than I did when Madrazo woke me up at the motel so I'm guessing I didn't throw up _inside_ the car.

When I come out, I check my reflection. My nose is crooked, but the swelling in my face is going down and the wound in my chest is finally scabbing over nicely, but I've got some dark bruises still, my eyes are ringed with heavy black bags, and my skin looks generally gray.

There's a clean dark gray suit and new underwear on the bed when I come out. I dress more sharply than I ever have in my life and then head upstairs where The Brunette has a thick green smoothie waiting for me. "I have two of these places. I don't live in this one anymore," she says by way of a partial explanation.

I sigh heavily as I struggle onto a barstool at her breakfast counter and then, with a deep breath, throw back the smoothie. It's suitably disgusting and for a moment I worry I'm going to throw up again while I notice her silently weighing up whether she's going to have to kill me. But then I recover and she asks "reckon you can hold down coffee?"

"Yes," I breathe gratefully.

"How long have you been alcoholic," she asks.

"Forever," I confess.

"Why stop now?"

"Necessity. And by the time I had a chance to buy more booze, I was already halfway here."

"You're supposed to do it _gradually_ , a$$hole. Save yourself the discomfort."

"I know. But I think it's time to kick the habit."

She's at the coffee percolator now, spooning in the coffee grounds. I can see her eying a bottle of whiskey, wondering whether to spice it up for me, but she decides against it, at least for now. "I was reading the symptoms online. You been having any hallucinations?"

I shake my head.

"Nightmares?"

"Always."

"Does your arm itch?"

"Yeah," I say, stopping myself short of scratching it.

"You need medical help."

"If I see a doctor I'm on a one way trip to Bolingbroke," I point out. "Sorry," I add, then, realising I'd snapped at her.

"Yeah, it said you'd be irritable too." She turns her attention to the percolator, fills two mugs, puts one in front of me.

"Thanks," I say. "How much do I owe you for the clothes?"

"A lot more than you can afford," she says. "So don't worry about it."

Stupid money, she'd said.

"Has Lester been in touch," I ask.

"Yes and you're not gonna like it," she says. "He decrypted the undercover list. Your girlfriend's not on it."

I mull over the last couple of days in my head while I take that in. Or at least I try to. "What does that mean," I ask after being forced to admit defeat.

She shrugs. "Means she's not undercover."

I show her the email, tell her how I found her house. She thinks for a moment and then asks "are you sure it's her that sent the email?"

"Relatively," I say, and explain about the nickname. She shakes her head. "What," I protest.

"You're not sure at all. You have no way of knowing nobody else knew you called her that."

"Why would anyone else send it?"

"Bought you back, didn't it," she points out. "Think you can leave the apartment without f***ing up everything you touch?"

"Maybe. Why?"

"Because you and I have another job to do this afternoon for the guy you met last night."

"No thanks," I argue.

"Neither of us has a choice," she snaps. "If you didn't notice, the guy's a Fed. The only way you get to leave the job before it's finished is if you're dead, like the guy we had to drag back from the airfield."

Airfield? I cast my mind back, vaguely recall something about it on the news. McKenzie Airfield. "Jesus, that was you?"

She gives me a strange half-smile in reply, then adds "before that, we're gonna go see Ant and Brii."

"Who are they," I ask.

She grins. " _My_ people."

Now I _really_ feel like an a$$hole. I'm sat on the p*ssy pad of a custom Western Daemon chop behind her while she rides us out of the city all the way North to Paleto Bay. There's an archway built into the stone to the right of the highway just before the town and she pulls sharply across the opposite carriageway to go through it as oncoming cars screech and honk and I'm nearly thrown free of the bike. She's wearing denim shorts now, knee-boots and a denim jacket adorned on the back with three flaming skulls and emblazoned with the initials "B.M.M.C."

There's a guy wearing a black bandana and baseball cap and a faded leather jacket with a horizontal red stripe, and on his arm a woman in similar disguise with those large black hipster glasses and her hair up fancy, although shaved on one side, in a similar jacket to The Brunette. They're on the other side of a bridge to our left, leaning against the wall of a dilapidated shed outside a dilapidated farmhouse in what is mostly, yep, dilapidated wasteland. There's a whole mixed bunch of stoned looking homeless people, stoned looking hippies, stoned looking eco-warriors and downtrodden war veterans living in a campsite in what possibly once were crop fields, but they're very deliberately not paying us any attention.

The Brunette pulls up outside the dilapidated farmhouse next to two other bikes and I clamber awkwardly off it, struggling in the gray suit that's cut much tighter than anything I've ever tried to wear before, while she kills the engine and dismounts far more gracefully.

"Turbo," the woman greets The Brunette as we approach, pushing herself up onto her feet to embrace her in greeting. When they separated the guy hugs The Brunette too, but then the both of them eye me with… not suspicion, exactly, but… something. Distaste, probably. I scratch my arm, but stop because it's starting to burn.

"Former cop Shaun Harvey, Harvey this is Ant and Brii," The Brunette introduces.

"And you're Turbo," I say. She gives me a look, like _call me that again and I'll gut you_. "Okay, what are we doing here," I ask to prevent myself from wilting under her glare.

The guy pulls the shed door open. Inside, hooded and tied to a chair, sits the Lieutenant.

"Madrazo's expecting you to get back to him," Brunette Turbo explains. "Seems clear _he's_ still your only lead."

The guy, Ant, speaks now. "You tell me what you need to know and I'll get the answers."

I'm wondering how The Brunette knows about Madrazo, but now's not the right time for that. So I say "I need to know who he's working for. Everybody. I need to know who he got the instructions for the truck heist from, who else knew about it and if he knows anything about who really ripped the hijack crew off. Ask him," I start.

They look at me. "Ask him," Ant eventually prompts.

I swallow hard. "Ask him if he pulled the trigger on Ericsson himself or if he paid someone else to do it."

He nods his understanding and then he and the woman, Brii, go in. The Brunette shuts the door behind them.

The occasional screaming doesn't do my head any good and the sun feels like it's boiling me alive from the inside out. I'm sweating hard and starting to feel sick again. The Brunette gives me a bottle of water and the Xanax from a leather bag on her ride. "Did it say how long the symptoms might last," I ask her.

"A few days to a few weeks depending," she says. She's trying to sound unsympathetic, but I think I detect a slight softness to her tone.

The hippies go on ignoring us. My phone rings. I answer it, expecting Madrazo. I'm wrong.

The voice is computer generated, like that Professor in the wheelchair that knows all about space and time.

 _Shaun Harvey we know you have Lieutenant Raymond Gray in your custody. If you want to see Candace Butler alive again then you need to release him immediately. We are tracking your cell and we have your current location, it will not take us long to trace where you have been or who with or who you have called. We will be staying on the line so when you are in range of the Lieutenant we only need his voice print ident._

The Brunette looks at me and I look at her. Then she bangs on the shed door. Brii answers and The Brunette swiftly puts a finger to her lips, slips inside and whispers.

A minute later, Ant, Brii and The Brunette come back outside. The Lieutenant has been unhooded and untied, but with his injured knee he's slumped on the floor. I put the phone on the ground next to him and say loudly "he's here."

 _When you are in range of the Lieutenant we need his voice print ident._

I'm expecting him to smirk when he looks up at me, but he doesn't. He looks as unnerved as I am.

"I'm here" he barks.

 _Stay put Lieutenant. We will have protection and medical assistance at your location very soon._

"What about Butler," I demand.

 _Candace Butler will not be harmed pending safe collection of the Lieutenant. You will receive further instructions and we anticipate you will be losing your phone so a message will be left at The Crown Jewels Motel in six hours._

I stomp on my phone, then pick up the wreck and pull out the SIM and the memory card. Outside I see the others taking similar measures, tossing the SIM cards into a fire. I'm tempted to add mine, but then it might be better to hold it until I can talk to Lester.

"We're taking off," Ant says. "You know where to meet us and when."

The Brunette nods. Ant and Brii take to their bikes and head out. The Brunette goes for hers, fires it up and takes off, leaving me on my own.

"I can't clear your name, Harvey," the Lieutenant calls. "I don't know why you came back now, but you should just leave this alone."

"But you know," I say.

"I know," he sighs.

"Then all I need to know is whether or not you killed Ericsson."

He looks up now. "Ericsson's not dead."

What? "Then where the hell is he," I demand.

"Ericsson's not dead," he repeats. "I can't tell you any more."

"Can't or won't," I finally get to ask.

"Can't, god damn it," he tries to yell, and starts coughing. When he can talk again he says "look, Harvey, you were out. You should've stayed out." He shakes his head. "You need to get out of here."

"If they hurt Butler I'll kill you."

"I don't know anything about Butler."

Jesus Christ, is there something wrong with me? I actually believe him. "What have they got on you," I ask.

"Everything."

"Your wife?"

"Wife. Grandkids, even my damn mistress! I'm walking a very tight line here Harvey. Go, before they catch you."

"Who are they?"

"I don't _know_ Harvey," he admits. "I don't know but they're f***ing dangerous. You _need_ to _go_."

Behind me The Brunette has rode back in and sits on the chop waiting. I hear something in the distance and start running across the bridge, pointing towards the hippies. "Get amongst them and get down," I yell. "Go!" She guns the bike into the middle of the tent city, hides the chop in one of the tents, keeps the hippy from complaining or running with her pistol. I run across and dive down just as a large black armored SUV cruises into the area. It parks up and four guys get out. They're expensively armed and expensively dressed; their suits make even the clothes The Brunette gave me look cheap, or maybe that's just because it's me wearing them. They glance in our direction, determine we're just a bunch of hippies, and stand guarding the area. A man in white coat with a doctor's bag and a stethoscope around his neck gets out and goes to attend to the Lieutenant. I cast a glance over at The Brunette. She's angry at me and I understand why, but she's keeping an eye on these guys just as closely as I am. I wonder why she came back, then I remember; we have a job to do this afternoon. I hope these guys don't go making us late.

The doctor spends a few minutes with the Lieutenant and then helps him limp into the armored truck. One of the guys gets into the driver's seat and turns it around, but then brings it to a stop.

Uh oh.

Before either of us has a chance to react, they open fire on the hippie camp. Even if I could draw my gun it would be a pea shooter in the face of their heavy automatic rifles so all I can do is scurry down and try to make myself as small as possible as blood and dust explodes all around me.

Does it go on forever? I can't tell. The silence is sudden and deafening, broken only by the wailing of one mortally wounded old man, writhing and thrashing and praying.

One of the gunmen strolls over and nonchalantly puts him out of his misery.

Oh my god I want to be sick I want to be sick I want to be sick

He lingers.

I'm going mad I'm going to die I need to be sick I need to scream for help

He grunts.

Oh f*ck just go just go just go I can't keep still much longer…

And then he strolls back to the SUV. Everybody gets inside and then it pulls smoothly away, through the archway and I hear the engine note as it fades into the distance.

It's some time before The Brunette pushes herself to her feet and I scramble out of the dirt. Both of us are covered in dust and blood and for a while all we can do is stare in horror at the scene. She goes to retrieve her motorbike. It's bullet-riddled; the engine is damaged so far as to be rendered useless and gasoline pours out of the tank. She curses loudly, but then spends the next few minutes wheeling the bike around pouring gas over the bodies. When it stops leaking out, she throws a glance in my direction. If looks could kill, that one would have left me severely mutilated. I follow, tripping over my feet, each step bringing up a stronger wave of nausea than the last. When finally I catch up with her, she draws her nine and shoots a patch of gasoline. The spark ignites it and soon the whole camp is ablaze.

She makes her way through the tunnel and across the highway with the disabled bike. I struggle to keep up because of my stumbling and also because I can't concentrate enough to be able to judge how far away each car is or how quickly it's coming towards me. Eventually, traffic piles up and honks and I'm able to stagger sideways to the other side.

The bike has gone and, once the traffic's moving again, The Brunette reappears.

I realise we're stood in front of a diner. The Brunette takes a glance towards it and then ducks next to the drivers' door of a parked Sabre Turbo. There's no sound of anything breaking but she gets the door open, and then sets to work hotwiring it. When it roars into life, she quickly springs into the drivers' seat, leans across and opens the passenger door. I stumble as quick as I can into it and she guns it backwards onto the highway before shifting it into first and screeching away just as the diner door bursts open and an angry redneck rushes out.

I sink back in my seat and refrain from saying anything stupid about paying for the damage because I cannot even begin to calculate how much the repair will cost, and in any case the bike is just a thing. _Nothing_ can fix _this_.

"How long have we got before the job this afternoon," I ask dumbly.

She checks her wristwatch. "Just over two hours," she says, just as dumb.

"I'm sorry," I start.

"Just shut up," she snaps. So I do.

The car's owner dials 911 on his cell phone in the rearview.

We'd stopped at a gas station halfway to wash some of the blood off in the restroom and steal a couple of license plates to try and get some of the heat off our stolen Sabre, but it wasn't until we abandoned the car at the parking lot on Power Street in downtown Los Santos and I checked for bloodstains that I realised Ericsson wasn't really in the back seat. He'd been sat there most of the drive back into the city discussing with me what had happened since I got back and what it could all mean.

The Brunette comes back from the 24/7 store across the street from the lot and thrusts a four pack of beers into my arms. "One beer, every hour," she demands.

"How long for," I croak.

"Until they're gone. We'll get more later."

A cab pulls up and she opens the door, beckons for me to get in. I do. She follows. She's also picked up a couple of cheap burner phones from the 24/7 store, the kind with limited online capabilities but with battery lives that last all week. She unboxes the pair of them and activates them to get their starter air time, then passes one of them to me. Beyond that, she's still not talking to me.

The cab drops us off outside the Posonby's store on Portola Drive and we walk from there to the garage of the Richard's Majestic apartment building where her array of vehicles is stored.

We take the elevator up to the apartment we were in the other night where we dressed in the cop uniforms. I've drank one of the beers and I'm starting to feel more like myself which may or may not be a good thing. I'm still a little shaky. But I can concentrate much more. "What the f*** happened to you," the guy who opens the door to us asks. The Brunette and I look at each other, then she looks back at him and shrugs. "Whatever," he says and moves back inside so we can follow him.

I realise now the guy we're working for is _definitely_ a Fed and he's deliberately not giving us a name. He's referring to himself as 'Agent 14'. I keep my distance from him because him recognising me is the last thing any of us need right now. So I keep quiet and let The Brunette deal with him while he explains the job.

He tells us that we're late so we get the tough assignment. He's wanting to bust some scientist out of Bolingbroke but needs to take care of some people with a vested interest in keeping him inside. Our mark is his former business partner, a Dimitri "Dima" Popov . The job is to "silence" him and take his written deposition.

A few minutes later we're riding the elevator back down with some photos of our mark and his mansion in Richman Glen.

Both of us can already see it's not going to be easy. He's extremely paranoid and lives constantly surrounded by a team of highly trained bodyguards. The mansion seems to be a virtual fortress.

I don't like it. "What the hell have you gotten me into," I moan. "I've already seen enough death today to last me a lifetime."

"I'm not too keen on it either but it's too late. We're involved. If we pull out he'll come after us next," she snaps.

"Jesus Christ," I curse.

We drive out in her yellow Warrener. It has our scope rifles in the trunk, mine in the black gym back I'd bought it in when I left Josh at the Suburban store, hers neatly disassembled in a metal suitcase with a soft padded interior with proper places hollowed out for each of the components. We've also been equipped with suppressors for our semi-automatic nines.

We're at a vantage point marked out for us by 'Agent 14' and the picture isn't any better. We could maybe take out the target from here, but then they'd know we were after the deposition, and if we start picking off the guards they'll quickly cotton on to our play and the target will be whisked away. I point this out, and The Brunette grins.

She calls Lester, asks him for any intel he has on Popov, especially what vehicles he has.

"Good news," she tells me when she hangs up. "He's only got the one car and they'll definitely get him into it for their escape because it's armored."

"How does that help us," I protest.

I hate walking. I hate it even more when I'm baking in the afternoon sun, still suffering with the sweats and nausea of my recent withdrawal. I'm not due another beer for a while but I could really use it right about now.

It may take me ten minutes or ten hours, I'm not sure, but eventually I collapse exhausted against the outer brickwork of the mansion's perimeter wall and call The Brunette on the burner.

She's still watching through the scope rifle from the vantage point.

"Be ready to move on my signal," she whispers. My heart pounds. "Go," she urges.

I clamber over the wall, quietly as I can and run to my left. The armored Gallivanter Baller is right there out front of the garage.

"Hurry," The Brunette hisses, and a second later I see why; a guard is coming from the garage along the drivers' side of the vehicle.

As quick as I can I drop down behind the passenger side.

"Keep moving, get to the back of the vehicle," she urges quietly and, keeping as low as I can without wobbling over, I move as quietly as I can as the guard moves around the front. I just make it and hide behind the rear as he leans against the hood and lights a cigarette.

"Be ready," she warns. Then I hear glass shatter and panic from within the house. Another window shatters, and a third shot hits the house showering broken brick and mortar in the yard. The guard with the Baller drops into cover by the driver's front wheel.

Damn, she's good. Four men rush the mark from the front door towards the Baller. "He's got the deposition," she tells me over the phone. I hear the rear door open and feel the vehicle bounce on its suspension as the mark is bundled inside, and shots being fired as the guards blindly lay down cover fire in the general direction of the sniper attacking them as they hurry to the passenger side. One gets into the shotgun seat. The other is moving to get into the rear door. "Go," shouts The Brunette. I come out of my hiding place, surprising the guard and take the opportunity to hit him in the face with the butt of my gun. He crumples to the ground. That'll hurt when he wakes up. The mark cowers away from the open door and I reach in and snatch the deposition from his hands.

Jesus, he's a nervous wreck. I don't think I can...

I'm not sure if his head exploded before I felt the bullet whizzing past my head but the shower of blood and brain matter brings everyone to a standstill.

"Run," I hear The Brunette shout. So I do. She shoots again, hitting the frame of the open rear door, stopping the guards from coming after me and I scramble back over the wall and run.

She keeps firing, keeping the guards in the armored Baller until I wheeze past her and collapse into the passenger seat of the Warrener, then she shoves her scope rifle into the back seat, drops into the driver's side and punches it back to the city.

"Jesus, you stink," she complains.

"You could have taken my head off," I snap back.

We ride quietly for a while. I keep watching behind us but she's not concerned about us being followed. "They just had a job," she says. "They did it, they failed. No point risking anything more for a client that's not around to pay them anymore."

"Jesus Christ, will you _listen_ to yourself," I shout.

"Will _you_ f***ing _wake up_ ," she retaliates. "Welcome to this side of the law. Things don't come for free. You want to steal police files? You're gonna have to get your f***ing hands dirty. Want to play with bent Feds? Then you'll have to learn to f***ing _bend_."

We're silent for a long while after that. I notice her wiping her eyes with her thumb, that she's gripping more tightly to the wheel.

I briefly rifle through the deposition but I'm not bothered about it and it stays on my lap the rest of the drive.

What I am bothered about is I've stored my next beer in her glovebox and now I grab it and down it in three long pulls, but I still have shakes.


	5. Chapter 5

Part 5 : Shaun Harvey

I have her drop me off at a bus stop when we get back into the city. She's reluctant but there's something I need to do, so she tells me where to meet her and when. I check my watch and it's about time for another beer, which is good because I don't think the bus driver would let me on with the remaining can bulging conspicuously in the jacket pocket of my soiled suit. As I sit at the bus stop, I become aware of just how badly I smell. The sweat must contain a whole bunch of toxins.

I call Lester with the burner phone The Brunette got me earlier and tell him I need to see him urgently. He says he'll text me a location and hangs up. A second later, the phone buzzes with the address; the old Darnell Brothers garment factory in La Mesa.

Lester meets me outside the factory, climbs out of a blue Asea Skylift and leads us inside and upstairs to an office.

I pass the SIM card from my old phone over and explain to him all that's happened today.

"Sounds like whoever's watching the Lieutenant has their own black hat, which means they're not messing around," Lester says when I've finished.

"There's one more thing, too," I add.

"Go on."

"How did The Brunette know I have to report in to Madrazo?" She may have helped me out today, and she's _really_ helped me out today, but when I got to thinking about it… actually, it was the hallucination of Ericsson that first asked about it, but she'd known at the shed where we met her contacts that I had to report back to Madrazo.

"Desperate times," Lester starts. "I keep my eye on the new talent in the city and reach out to the select few that have any potential. She hit my radar but she'd already run a few errands for Mr. Madrazo, so maybe she has more interest in you than as an unlikely 'partner' in 'crime'."

Hilarious, Lester.

"Okay, well, speaking of Madrazo, I gotta call him," I say.

"Give me your phone," he instructs. I do. He does something I don't understand with a computer lead and hands it back. I look at him enquiringly. "I don't want some psychotic Mexican coke runner coming to hacksaw my feet off at my place," he explains. "This will put your signal in a different location outside the US every seven seconds." I call and lay the phone on the table, on speaker.

"You're late," Madrazo shouts.

"You want my report or not," I snap.

"Get talking," he instructs.

"Somebody's got their claws in the Lieutenant," I say. "Whoever it is, he's scared to death of them. So before I poke that particular hornets' nest I need to be absolutely certain that it's not you."

"You need to be more specific," he complains.

"A big black armored Insurgent SUV and a group of heavily armed, well-dressed thugs that massacred a commune just outside Paleto Bay around midday," I challenge.

Silence.

"Did you recognise any of them," he asks me eventually.

"I couldn't get close enough."

"I'll look into it."

"I need to know two more things from you."

"Go on," he says. I can hear the annoyance.

I take a deep breath. "Are you currently aware of any undercover cops?"

He laughs. "Undercover cops don't tend to stay in my employment for very long."

"I'm looking for a woman. I don't know what her cover is or where she's been sent but I want to get her out. _Safely_."

"Let's say we have a mutual acquaintance that keeps me abreast of who he's loaning to help out with my, _legitimate_ , business activities. All of them, currently, are male, and all will be returned home. They might bear the signs of their hard labour but they will be otherwise alive and well."

My mind races while I take this in. "Okay," I concede. "Then I just need to know who initially arranged… let's say alternative transportation for the… delivery."

"The money is _mine_ ," Madrazo says in a way that leaves no room for argument.

"Okay then. I'll be in touch when I find out more."

I terminate the call. Lester says "you didn't tell him about your former partner."

"No," I agree. "It's best I be the one to turn that particular stone. Did you manage to find any link between Madrazo and Devin Weston?"

"Inconclusive," Lester replies. "Which is to say there's enough red herrings and dead ends to strongly suggest your theory holds weight. My associate Paige is still trying to untangle the web of shell companies and fund accounts but it seems Madrazo tried to enter into a property deal that was then sabotaged for the insurance. That is very much Mr. Weston's MO. He gets future potentials while the 'partner', in most cases, loses all of their investment."

"So Madrazo set up the job. I need to identify the players."

"I'll be in touch," Lester says, taking the SIM card. That's my cue to leave so I head out.

Just up the street is a diner where I eat, get a beer and pay the bill with a generous tip for the waitress. Then I go out to find a place to buy some more beer. The low alcohol content is a good play. I'm still sweating and slightly shaky, but I feel much more in control of myself than I did this morning. I just need to make sure I don't go too long between drinks. Eventually I'll taper off and it'll be hard, but much easier to get through it this way.

I wonder if The Brunette hasn't saved my life today.

I come out and head towards the Little Bighorn Avenue bridge to go back to the Dashound Bus Centre. I'm just nearing the end of the bridge when three V-twin choppers thunder past. It sets me on edge because I'm expecting The Lost after my encounter in Sandy Shores, but it's some other crew. I try to read the name on their patches and I'm sure it says Dark Banditz. They pay me no attention and cruise on past, but as I get into Legion Square I see them pulling up outside a coffee shop and heading inside for frothy lattes and cherry muffins and I remember this is the current face of the 42mc.

One of them has a pretty sweet black-on-black Hexer. I check quickly inside the coffee shop. They've got themselves a little table and are now showing each other some toy motorbike models that they've bought, so I kick-start the black-on-black and gun it. I'm heading in the direction of the highway to Sandy Shores, but there's a tunnel coming up on the left that'll take me towards Vinewood. The Hexer's heavier than my trail bike so I overshoot slightly but with a heavy injection of throttle the huge rear tyre grips and launches me forward. I keep it wide open as I weave between cars, out of the tunnel and up past the luxury apartment complex on Integrity Way, not stopping for the light as I swing it right and past the construction site to the next intersection where I take another hard left and reverberate the engine's thump off the walls of another tunnel that brings me out to my destination.

The Los Santos Customs garage just out of Vinewood gets a lot of the hottest cars. One of their senior mechanics wants to avoid getting busted on a street racing rap so he was one of my primary CI's back in the day. He's not happy to see me but I remind him that just cos I'm not a cop anymore doesn't mean I don't still have his rapsheet, and he's not reached his statute of limitation yet. I keep watch outside while he thoroughly checks over the bike for a tracker, declares it clean and gives it a very quick matt-red vinyl wrap. It's bubbled, but it'll do under cover of dark. Then I head out to the meeting spot.

The Brunette, Ant, Brii and another guy are there wearing BMMC colors. With them are another two guys, both in black stealth armour, dark glasses and bandanas, and a blonde woman in jeans and a leather jacket. The guy in the BMMC jacket that I don't recognise steps up to stop me but Ant says "it's okay Popeye," and he chills back out.

The Brunette nods at me. "What you got there?"

"Peace offering," I say, wheeling the stolen bike up to the meeting. She comes up and takes it from me, drops the kickstand that I'd completely forgotten about so I don't have to keep holding its weight up.

"Where'd you get it," she asks me suspiciously. So I tell her and everyone laughs. She makes introductions. "You already know Ant and Brii. This is Popeye, Wendy, Chubby and Sniper."

"Hiya," the blonde, Wendy greets. Her accent sounds Scottish. I like it. The guy with her, who I'm guessing is 'Chubby' nods a greeting. Sniper stares and I find myself having to look elsewhere.

"Alright guys," says Ant and everyone except he, Brii and The Brunette take up lookout positions with automatic rifles to make sure nobody thinks about paying any attention to us.

"What'd you find out," The Brunette asks.

"Your cop's scared to death," Ant says. "Someone's got him by the b*lls and he either can't or won't say who."

"I'm guessing he can't because he wasn't as afraid of being killed as he should have been," Brii adds.

"No," I concede. "After you guys split he told me they're threatening his family. What did he say about Ericsson?"

Ant fixes me and replies "that he's alive."

"Did he say where?"

"No." That was Brii, and it was definitive. "We pushed."

Ant adds "although if we'd known what you just told us then, we'd have approached it differently."

"I know. So would I," I say.

"What about the money," asks The Brunette.

"He knows Harvey doesn't have it, but he doesn't know who does," says Brii.

"Who else was on the crew," I ask.

"The only guys he knew were you, Ericsson and a guy called Verzynski, who Madrazo appointed directly," Ant tells us. "The rest were made up of Madrazo's guys that he doesn't know."

Damn. That's going to be an uncomfortable conversation.

"Okay guys, thanks," I say. "One more thing."

"Already taken care of," says Brii and right on cue another bike comes up the streets to us. "Here's Skix."

The guy dismounts, looks at me with the same distaste I'd gotten earlier from Ant and Brii, and hands them an envelope.

The message from the Crown Jewels Motel from whoever was on the phone when we were interrogating the Lieutenant.

"How did you get it," Ant asks.

"Paid a streetwalker to go in and get it for me," he says. "She left it, Jibby's girl collected it, took it to the Mall where Jibby checked it. Another girl bought it back to me."

"Alright," says Ant and he takes the sheet of paper out of the envelope. "'When you have the money call'," he reads and turns around the page so I can get the number. I jot it down in my cell and text it to Lester then nod at Ant so he can burn it and the envelope it came in.

"They came hard and heavy," The Brunnette says. "They had an armor plated Insurgent. You know of any crews running one of them?"

Ant and Brii look at each other. "We'll find out," Brii says.

Then everybody heads to their bikes, or cars in the case of Wendy and Sniper.

"Be careful with this a$$hole," Ant tells The Brunette. And then everybody splits in different directions, leaving us alone.

"How did you know Madrazo's using me to dig into the heist," I ask.

She gives me a half-smile. "He's kind of using me to use you to dig into the heist," she admits. "He and I have a little history, so I promised I'd keep an eye on you."

I tilt my head. "Okay. So what now?"

"How are you getting on with the beer?"

"One an hour, like you said."

"How are you holding up?"

"Better."

"Good," she says. "You were shaking like a sh*tting dog and talking to yourself the whole drive back from Paleto Bay. We're gonna cut it to one beer every hour and a half, but not tomorrow, okay?"

"I'll try," I agree.

"Okay. But being as I don't wanna get tracked to my old place and there's no way I'm taking you to my apartment, we need to find some place to lie low tonight."

If I'd thought I couldn't get anywhere more flea-bitten than the Bilingsgate Motel near Jerome's place, I'd have been dead wrong. The Pink Cage motel redefined the word "nasty" but it was fittingly cheap and we were able to hide the bike from the road so, we hoped, we'd be relatively safe there.

I tried to sleep but that was virtually impossible so I got up.

"What's this," The Brunette asked me when she joined me from her adjoining bedroom around 3am wearing black lace panties and her denim jacket. On the floor I'd laid down a makeshift evidence board. It's becoming clear to me that if I'm to have any hope of bringing Candace Butler home alive, I'm going to have to go back over where it all went wrong in 2008.

 _Ericsson's driving because he's going to be in the truck, although nobody's ever going to find out. He'll be masked in full Gruppe 6 uniform so nobody will know who he is. The hijack team hitting them will be wearing identical outfits and bring the truck to a stop showing with a demonstration of their assault shotgun which will leave them in no doubt that it can fire through the truck's windshield without a problem. Anyone asks, he was with me the whole time at my checkpoint._

 _I don't know the guy who'll actually be with me, but I don't need to. I just need to keep the appearance up that he's my partner._

 _We've got a semi-truck loaded with PE4 that we're going to use to cut off the armored truck from its Merryweather escort, giving them an apparent terrorist situation to deal with. There'll be pipe b*mbs going off around Los Santos, all within a couple of minutes of each other. No major damage, just panic. Nobody's getting hurt, it's mostly to distract and overwhelm our other colleagues in the already-stretched LSPD._

 _This is our third and final walkthrough. The job starts tomorrow, 10.32am on the dot, two minutes after the truck leaves the Depository. That's when we'll start the apparent terror attacks, forcing the truck to abandon its primary route, then its secondary route as well, cutting them off from their Merryweather escort so they have to request the LSPD to secure it's onward travel after that._

 _I have a hip flask but it's already getting low at just after 3pm, so its blessed relief when the Lieutenant declares that we're done and directs Ericsson to his bar._

 _Most cops go to Shenanigan's Bar on Strawberry Avenue, just north of Legion Square. It's in walking distance of the Mission Hill Station, so it's something of an unofficial cop bar, and therefore us cops of a certain persuasion avoid it. Ours is a discreet bar behind an out-of-business liquor store next door to the more obvious Mirror Park Tavern._

 _Before Midday tomorrow, the truck will be with its new owner and we'll be looking forward to getting our cut of the money. We'll have lunch and drinks and get back to work bravely leading the citizens of Los Santos through the aftermath of a series of frightening attacks which, fortunately, narrowly missed their targets._

 _Midday tomorrow Ericsson will already be dead, or so I'll be led to believe, along with the other three hijackers and two cops who were in the wrong place at the wrong time. I'll get a call from the Lieutenant who'll tell me to lie low and deliver me the bad news that the truck disappeared after my checkpoint._

 _10.43am the day after; I'll wake up late for work with a pounding hangover in a motel room with a girl, neither of which I remember paying for, and see on TV that I'm a wanted fugitive._

 _Ericsson's name won't appear anywhere in the news coverage, either that morning or at any point in the weeks that follow. The LSPD covers up any trace of my dead partner's involvement. Meanwhile, I'm the subject of a city-wide, then a state-wide manhunt. For a while it'll even go out to the whole country and I'll score a place for a week or two in the F.I.B's 100 Most Wanted list. Not the top 50, though, damn it._

 _So they pin everything on me, say I've disappeared after killing the crew at my checkpoint and made off in the truck alone._

 _The bodies of the hijack crew will be discovered at the underpass where I had my checkpoint set up with the fake Ericsson._

 _A week before the hit, Ericsson and I had been at the Unicorn. You wouldn't know it but there's always cops at the Unicorn, but don't think they'll come running to your aid if you get it trouble. We aren't_ those _kind of cops._

 _Ericsson is sweet on one of the girls there, has an on again-off again thing going on with her, so we're there on a Thursday morning waiting for her while some other woman who seems to look so much older and more tired at this time of day performs on the stage. There was a couple of other guys in there sitting on their own as far apart as they can get and otherwise it was just us and the girl tending the bar._

 _"_ _Something's coming up," Ericsson said. "The Lieutenant is giving us the details in a few days, but it's big."_

 _I nodded. I'd picked up similar vibes but nothing concrete._

 _"_ _I have a bad feeling," he continued. "You know me, I always have a bad feeling."_

 _We laughed at that one and I clinked my bourbon against his beer bottle._

 _"_ _How quickly can you gather what you've got so far in a pinch," he went on._

 _"_ _Whaddya mean," I said._

 _"_ _I mean, you have to drop it all and go, gather all you've got hidden, liquidate as much as you can, how long would it take?"_

 _I narrowed my eyes and thought. Nothing's all in one spot, that would've make it easy for them to pin me if they found it. I had a locker here, a room on retainer there, a few deposit boxes. "About half a day," I calculated._

 _"_ _That's too long man," he said. "You know how quickly LSPD can lock down the city in an emergency. I been thinkin' about it. If I suddenly need to skip town, I gotta have what I need in one grab and go spot. All I need to do is contact Nikki and arrange where I'm gonna pick her up. Have everything else out of town."_

 _"_ _Two things. One, you put all your sh*t together, and they find it, they got you and you got nothing. Two, out of town which way," I asked._

 _There's a few routes you could take, and knowing which one was safest would depend on when and where it came to it._

 _He thought for a second, laughed, shook his head. "I don't know man. I don't know. But you should think about it," he added._

 _So I do. And for the rest of that week, I draw together all my reserves. I contact Lester to buy a new identity and with that I buy a brand new Ubermacht Zion, figuring it as a great getaway vehicle as well as an easily liquefiable asset later down the line._

 _11.07am the day after the heist, I'm cruising that beast the hell out of dodge, trying to keep my heart rate down and resist the urge to release all of the car's horses. I'll later lose a good 60% of my investment when it comes to selling it but, hey, it's a buyer's market._

 _Since then, I've been living with a tent and a trail bike. I've gotten used to living with very little. I can make fire and distill water out of desert heat, or find it underground. With a wifi connection I could probably even figure out moonshine. I'm building a knowledge of what plants and berries are safe to eat. It's hard, but I've seen a lot of America that most San Andreans miss out on, never leaving San Andreas._

 _Or at least I would have done if I hadn't been permanently blunted the whole time. The alcohol has been my companion and my biggest expense, my crutch and my handicap. I'm starting to realise it's the alcohol that made me the easy target for pinning the blame on too for the truck heist._

 _Oh yeah, my being an alcoholic made me very convenient indeed. Madrazo realises this, or at least is going to great lengths to appear to, and it seems like he's not the only one._

"They want to know what happened to the money? Yeah, well now, for the first time, I do too," I say.

She bites her lip as she looks it all over. "So where do we start," she asks.

I bend over, find a half-buried piece of paper, stand up to show her. "With the people involved," I say. "These are our persons of interest. At least one of these guys knows more than they've let on."

She reads the list. "Ericsson's on here," she says.

I nod. "He was my partner. On the force," I add.

"You thought he was dead. How are we going to find him?"

"I don't know," I admit. "We'll have to start with the people we _can_ find."

Apart from Ericsson, the Lieutenant and I, the only other member of the crew I can put a name to is a Pawel Verzynski.

"Okay," she says. "But that's going to have to wait."

"What? Why?"

She takes hold of my belt. "You don't smell as bad now," she says quietly.

"No, I showered," I say, but I already know I should be shutting up.

She takes a hard breath. "You know what we're doing tomorrow?"

I shake my head. She smiles, sympathetically.

"I'm sorry I got you caught up in this," she says.

"In what?"

She looks me in the eye then. "Tomorrow we have to break a man called Maxim Rashkovsky out of Bolingbroke for Agent 14," she says.

"What," I cry.

She bites her lip again. Her eyes drop. "That's been the point of everything," she says. "The airfield. The prisoner transit schedule. The guy we hit yesterday."

"Did you know," I ask her quietly. I should be mad, or scared, but I can't bring myself to be either. The lack of concern feels strangely comforting.

She nods. "But I only found out yesterday, after I dropped you off, that they'd bought forward the job."

"Sh*t…"

We're silent for a moment. Eventually we both realise she's still holding on to my belt. She returns her eyes to mine, unbuttons the jacket, drops it to the floor. Then she pulls my shirt out from where it's tucked into my pants, starts undoing the buttons.

"We should get some sleep," I argue, stupidly.

She starts kissing up my chest and damn, if it doesn't feel good.

"Don't read too much into this," she whispers into my ear as she eases my shirt off. "I'm just using you."  
"Fine by me."

Sunlight is piercing the worn motel curtains highlighting how filthy the suite is when both of us come round. There's no kiss. No acknowledgement of any kind. She goes through to the bathroom in her suite, I go into mine.

We shower. We dress. And we head out.


	6. Chapter 6

Part 6 : Shaun Harvey

It doesn't take long for everything to go to sh*t.

 _We've got a bit of a problem. Some a$$hole's got wind of what we're up to, apparently killing a guy's closest associate puts a bit of a spotlight on him. Anyway now I'm told they put a price on the Professor's head so we gotta move, now, is that clear? Can we get going? Alright?_

She pulls the bus up to the outer gate of Bolingbroke Penitentiary just before 1pm, right under the full force of the baking desert sun. She's dressed in guard uniform with body armor and an automatic rifle and I'm wearing an orange prison jumpsuit. I'm handcuffed too, but Agent 14 had showed me just how to pull to break them apart back at the apartment.  
The gate guard comes out of his booth and looks us over. "Just one," he asks her. "I thought the drug laws were keeping us full. Come on." And just like that, he opens the inner gate for us.

 _Based on this "inmate transport schedule" Bolingbroke are expecting a new arrival. One of you's gonna intercept the transport, make sure it doesn't get there. Two of you are going to be taking_ our _prison bus and making your way into the facility in its place. You'll be playing inmate and guard..._

I'm more concerned by the nine mil duct taped to my spine.  
Scared because I have it.  
Sh*t scared because that's _all_ I have.  
"Okay, get to it. As long as they think you're an inmate and guard they shouldn't raise the alarm. I said 'shouldn't'," Agent 14 tells us as we roll slowly in. We cruise in between two buildings connected overhead by two bridges that join the roof gantries where the guards watch over the facility.  
She parks up behind another bus at the far end and shoves me out with her rifle as I'm clambering down the bus' steps. Gives me another push for good measure. Theatrics.

 _…stay in character as long as it's useful…_

It works for the two guys immediately near the bus, but our entry point to the prison is back the way we came where another guy waits impatiently for us at the inner gate. We keep it nice and tidy, me moving reluctantly forward while she motivates me with her gun in my back.  
I don't know if it's the smell of alcohol on me that gives us away, but the guard waiting for us makes us ten paces off and raises his shotgun.  
She brings her rifle up faster and drops him, then turns to deal with the two behind us back at the bus while I break apart the fake shackles and pull the nine from my spine. She gets one; the other's taken cover behind the bus we came in on, simultaneously trying to wrestle with his radio and his holstered pistol. There's a cold wrenching in my stomach as I aim in his direction, waiting for my shot to present itself; this is a guy doing a job. Just like I used to be, way back. So when he leans out intending to take my head off and I pull the trigger, I've got the sights on his shoulder. He goes down and clutches at the wound, just clear of the padding of his body armor, and his gun clatters away. I'm happy to leave it at that, but The Brunette gives me a look that suggests she's not.  
Already there's an alarm sounding. It resonates inside my head and makes me want to scrabble down into the dirt, bury myself and allow my bowels to let go.  
"So much for _that_ , the facility's on alert – move for Rashkovsky," Agent 14 urges in our earpieces.  
She's already climbing up a ladder near the corpse of the guy that made us. Alerted prison guards start to appear on the gantries overhead on the opposite side so I take the dead guard's shotgun to lay covering fire as she climbs. Once she's up and bought her gun to bear, I grab the dead guard's pistol too, tuck it with the one I came with in the waistband of my pants and follow her. I hear her rifle spitting short bursts overhead and as I come up on the gantry, there's already four dead bodies.

 _…then make your way to the rooftops. I'll get on the radio and give you a path to the Prof._

"Come on," she yells as she dashes across the gantry that heads deeper into the prison complex, her rifle continuing to blare in short bursts as ahead and to our left more guards rush out to try and put us down.

I follow her, laying down suppressing fire with the shotgun at the guards on the left to keep them ducked down in their cover, while ahead she ploughs down anyone that steps in front of us. When the shotgun clicks empty I discard it and swap it for an automatic rifle from a corpse.  
The guards are starting to get over the shock of us hitting them and are now putting up a fight. Bullets whizz past my head in front and behind me, and the training takes over; I turn and put a round in each of the shooters. One drops clutching his side, the other takes a round in the leg and, to my horror, falls off the gantry. "Jesus," I blurt and fight the urge to immediately lean over and see where he landed. I feel sick to the pit of my stomach. More bullets come whizzing between us, prompting me to move my a$$ and we hurry as quickly as we dare further along the gantry. I'm firing indiscriminately now, too scared to look at where I'm shooting; I just want to stop my targets from shooting back at us. I know this is going to hit me even harder later, but for now I have to bite it back or we're dead.  
"Go left at the fork," Agent 14 instructs.  
Either he's watching us on the complex's security feed or live via some satellite; no way can he be tracking us that closely just on our GPS.  
We go left, and make our way towards the end.  
"Take a right and you should see some stairs in front of you," Agent 14 tells us as we near the edge. She's about to follow, but I grab her collar and pull her back.  
Just in time, as the wall to our right explodes in a shower of rubble over us. "Snipers in the towers," I warn her. She nods her understanding then, and we take turns doing quick reconnaissance glances out of cover until we know roughly where we need to put her bullets. I go out first to draw their fire, and duck back into cover as the wall showers more rubble over the gantry. She immediately follows me out and takes out the shooter, and then we're both back as three more rounds hit the wall. Same again for the second tower. Only two rounds this time. Damn, she's good, but they should be wise to us now.  
Shock and awe time; both of us charge out of cover and across the gantry as fast as we can. She takes the third tower with a single short burst of her rifle. I pepper mine with spray from the automatic rifle which nearly depletes my cartridge. Nobody fires back and I feel a tight twisting in my gut. Agent 14 comes through on the radio: "the prison's in lockdown, there's only one path to Rashkovsky… oh sh*t, LOOK OUT, they called in N.O.O.S.E!"  
Too late; from our elevated vantage point we can see two armored trucks emblazoned with 'National Office Of Security Enforcement' already racing down the highway towards the complex. We're gonna have to move fast and even then, I can't see any way we can get out of here before they're inside to stop us. I'm praying now for the plane, but we've gotta pick Rashkovsky up first, and fast.

 _And remember, the Professor's paying you, not me. Not me_ at all _. So keep him alive._

"The asset's downstairs in the yard. Transporter, you're securing him, Officer, you're running interference," Agent 14 says. He's not yelling, but we all feel the urgency.  
'Transporter' is me. I sweep the barrel of my automatic rifle over the yard until I spot the mark, scrambling into cover. I alert The Brunette and she covers me from the gantry while I awkwardly clamber my way down the staircase and into the yard, duck and weave my way across the yard between bleachers, picnic tables and concrete barriers and dive behind the same wall to meet up with him.  
"I thought they were sending professionals," Rashkovsky complains at me distastefully. "I collaborate and nearly get a shiv for the pleasure! Just give me gun!"  
I hand him the nine I took from the guard that made us when we first got in here. He looks it over, checks the clip. "Nice," he approves. "There are some screws I _hope_ we run into. Let's go."  
I risk a glance out of our cover. The Brunette has picked up that I'm with the mark and she's on the move, engaging the invading N.O.O.S.E. team before they've had a chance to get a grip on the situation. Oh... 'running interference'...  
"Alright, paycheck is in _your_ hands Transporter, make sure you protect Rashkovsky," Agent 14 instructs in my ear.  
I aim ahead and aim low at a couple of N.O.O.S.E. guys that are getting ready to kill The Brunette; one goes down with a round in the thigh, but the other is protected by his kneepad and he turns, surprised towards me. I aim at another low soft spot and pull the trigger again but the rifle clicks, empty. I'm down to the nine I came in with for now, until I can scavenge another rifle and some spare clips off one of the bodies! I'm trying frantically to bring it out of the waistband of my pants in a panic as he's swinging his gun in my direction. That's when The Brunette puts a shot in his head.  
I'm screaming as I watch him drop in a cloud of red.  
The guy on the ground clutching his thigh looks at me and I can see the fear on his face now, as well as the hatred. I hurry towards him, keeping my nine trained on him and snatch up his fallen rifle, hit him in the face with the butt of it so that he collapses to the ground.  
We rendezvous with The Brunette at the prison yard basketball court and she takes point, having plenty of spare ammo for her rifle, while I keep watch from behind and pop shots around the periphery to make sure she's not blindsided. Rashkovsky stays behind us, occasionally firing his pistol and cursing at a guard or prisoner he's got a personal score with.  
Amidst the chaos, The Brunette remains calm, almost impassive as she fires off bursts and ducks between points of cover with clinical precision. After a couple of minutes, seven N.O.O.S.E. guys are dead and one is, I hope, out cold.  
What the hell does that _mean_?  
No.  
I can't think about that.

I can't help Candace Butler if I die here.  
"There's a small gap between the buildings to your left," Agent 14 instructs. "you're going out the way you came in, let's go!"  
We're moving again, between the buildings as instructed, towards the parking yard to get a vehicle to take us out of the Penitentiary, but it's where the second N.O.O.S.E. team are set up waiting for us. The Brunette and I spread out, her taking the right, me the left as we strafe between vehicles, barriers, outbuildings and utility points, circling around the N.O.O.S.E. guys firing constant short bursts of hot lead and trying to avoid taking their return fire while Rashkovsky stays low behind.  
This is getting crazy. My head is spinning, my heart is hammering and nothing in the world makes any sense. Agent 14 isn't helping matters screaming in our ears that we need to clear the area or Rashkovsky ain't moving. I feel the nausea and the sweat and the disorientation, but it's different.  
The nausea reaches a crescendo, like I need to throw up, and that if I throw up it will be my very soul that spills out. I'm vaguely aware of Agent 14 saying something about Demolitions as my head starts to swim. And then everything _really_ goes to hell. A Buzzard helicopter flying overhead starts spraying the prison with its rotating cannon. I'd vaguely heard it's approach, assumed that it was bringing more N.O.O.S.E. agents but it has them in its sights, and it's a massacre.  
After that there's a ringing in my head, like I'm in a bubble.  
Armored agents drop in front of our eyes in clouds of crimson, one after another, like dominos falling, the chopper's bullets ripping through their armor like they're not even wearing any.

 _Meanwhile, the pilot will have picked up the plane and be waiting on the evac in the air._

The bubble's burst by a yell from The Brunette; "Harvey!"  
I look at her, then at the scene, and I realise we've got a window. I run back, grab Rashkovsky and pull him forward, shove him on ahead of me.  
And as I'm doing it, my eyes lock with Ericsson's.  
"C'mon, Harvey, we've gotta go," she yells, but I'm not hearing her.  
I'm staring, dumbstruck, at him. He's looking at me. Disbelief turns to anger, then rage and he yells "you son of a…"  
His fist is raised, but we're separated by a heavy fence. I look around for some weakness or some way of getting to him.  
" _Harvey_ ," I hear her yell again.  
More N.O.O.S.E. trucks are heading towards the complex and the helicopter starts firing missiles. Explosions rock the compound. I grab the fence and pull it, futilely.  
"Harvey what the f*** are you doing here," he screams as I try desperately to pull the fence away.  
"Damn it, Ericsson, help me," I scream back. He just stands there glaring. "Ericsson, _I'm not leaving you here_ , come _on_ damn it!"  
He stares angrily at me a moment more and then shakes his head. "You can't get me from that side," he sighs.  
"No! I'm _not_ leaving you," I scream again.  
" _Listen_ ," he yells. "It's a Federal agent that put me in here. Are you _listening_? A Federal agent, named Andrea…"  
Another explosion interrupts, throws me onto my a$$. When I look back, Ericsson's disappeared.  
"Sh*t! _Ericsson_ ," I scream, but he's gone.  
The Brunette screams "Harvey, get your a$$ over here or I'm _leaving you behind_!"

She's managed to hotwire the first N.O.O.S.E. team's truck and is rolling it towards the gate. Rashkovsky's clambering into the shotgun seat and pulls the door closed in fear for his own life. I run like hell towards it, dropping the rifle to save weight and put all my strength, all my focus, into pounding for the truck like my life depends on it, which it does.  
I manage to leap through the open rear doors and hit the deck until I know I'm inside, then I scramble back and frantically pull the doors shut while she hits the gas and turns hard left, ramming through the gates and gunning the bus down the highway. She weaves right to avoid the lead N.O.O.S.E. truck bearing down on us, slamming me into the sidewall, then veers hard right to squeal around the next one that's tried to cut us off, dropping me onto the floor  
Scrambling up onto the bench seat I can hear the glorious sound of the plane coming down to rendezvous with us.  
"What the f*** were you playing at back there," she screams through the grill.  
"Ericsson," I say.  
" _What_? You _saw_ him?"  
"He was there," I blurt.  
"It was definitely him? You're sure?"  
"Will you two shut up," Rashkovsky yells. "They're coming after us!"  
One of the N.O.O.S.E. trucks and a few prison guards on foot are indeed chasing us from the ruined gate of the prison compound, although the majority of them are focused on keeping the rest of the inmates from flooding out.  
The plane comes down overhead, barely skimming the top of the truck and comes to a stop. The Brunette hammers on the brakes, sending me crashing to the floor. She opens the door and runs out first, pulling Rashkovsky with her. I kick open the rear door and follow behind.  
The helicopter flies over the truck then circles around and turns its rotating cannon once again towards the pursuing law enforcement crews, forming an arced curtain of bullets around us.  
Something's not right. The pilot of the plane, the guy who'd met us at the door to the apartment where we'd prepared for these jobs, has moved to the rear of the plane and opened the door from the inside, isn't going back to his seat…  
He's got a gun…  
"What the f***," The Brunette exclaims. Realises too late she's left her rifle in the truck.  
"No," I scream.  
A single gunshot rings out, but its drowned by the sound of the chopper and its cannon.

 _After that it's just a matter of getting your guy out of the clink and onto the plane._

"Jesus," Rashkovsky curses and runs towards the plane.

I'm still dumbly aiming my smoking nine at the corpse of the pilot as I stumble forward until I reach The Brunette. I'm not sure how I managed to get my shot off before he did, nor how I hit him from that distance without damaging the plane, but he's dead and we're not and, for now, that's all that matters.  
"Son of a b*tch," she breathes, seemingly as shell-shocked as I am.  
We stand there for a second, neither of us able to take in what's happening.  
Inside the plane, Rashkovsky's already dropping into the pilot's seat and flipping switches, preparing to get the bird into the air.

 _Professor Rashkovsky takes control of the plane, the three of you on board take a jump, the Professor's out of US airspace and reunited with his precious car._

We hear the engines powering up and hurry after Rashkovsky, clambering over the dead pilot into the plane.  
So, two of us. Two of us on board will jump; the traitorous pilot had been intending to take Rashkovsky, kill us and get our shares of the payment.  
Like The Brunette said, son of a b*tch.  
Rashkovsky gets us off the ground, leaving the trailing N.O.O.S.E. helplessly behind, but we're not out of the woods yet.  
Agent 14's voice crackles over our radios "we got a problem, air traffic's red flagging the plane and they're scrambling jets. Pilot, if they try to shoot you down run evasive manoeuvres."  
"Yes, yes, do you think I'm going to let myself get killed after all this," Rashkovsky yells.  
The door's still open and through it I see the helicopter destroy our truck with a missile and then turn to follow us. I pray he's got some firepower left to protect the defenceless plane.  
I make my way up front and peer through the windshield over Rashkovsky's shoulder. We're almost at the shore and beyond it, the edge of US airspace. It's 50/50 whether we'll make it over before the approaching Lazers get a lock on us.  
Make that 100/1 against. The Brunette cries "sh*t," and I rush back to see a missile heading towards us.  
Suddenly, something falls from the back of the helicopter. The missile veers off course from us and hits that instead, exploding a few metres away. The plane and the chopper are both shaken by the blast, but we're unharmed. The odds just moved slightly back in our favour. But two more missiles are now rushing towards us. One splits off, going for the chopper and the pilot drops another chaff decoy. The other one's coming straight for us.  
"Hold on," Rashkovsky yells and suddenly the plane barrel rolls and drops, inverted, towards the ground in a screaming dive. I'm screaming louder; The Brunette is gripping on to two seats with her teeth gritted. The missile whizzes by so close we can feel the heat of its propulsion through the open door. Rashkvosky holds the loop and we skim inches over the ground until we're pulling sharply back up into the sky, making us tumble towards the rear. An explosion of yellow flame bursts from the ground where we'd been barely a couple of seconds ago. Another second, two, and then we're over the water.  
"Nearly there," Rashkovsky calls.  
I risk a glance out of the door. The chopper's no longer with us; it's turned back to face the pursuing fighters. It hovers there as they bear down on him, and then he fires a heat seeker of his own and pulls back on his stick, brings it back around to follow us and puts the floor of the vehicle between him and the jets whizzing by. One of them is forced to break formation as the chopper's missile chases it. It explodes a metre or two short, doing the jet no damage, but it's enough. It's bought us time. We're out of US airspace.  
"Jets gone off line," Agent 14 all but whoops over the radio.  
They give us an angry flyby that threatens to shake us out of the sky as they disengage the pursuit and head back to their base, but Rashkovsky manages to bring it back under control.  
All that's left is for The Brunette and I to strap our parachutes on and prepare to jump.  
"So long," Rashkovsky calls. "I hope they pay you good for this."

 _Simple! Should be the easiest money you'll ever make. Speak soon!_

With the parachutes we managed to glide back towards the shoreline, land in the water within swimming distance of the beach, where the chopper picked us up. During the descent, I realised that Rashkovsky's last words to us didn't tally with Agent 14's assertion that he wasn't the one paying us, but I didn't give it too much thought because that was also when the weight of what we'd done finally hit me, along with the shakes and sweats of my blood-alcohol level running too low.

We huddled up in the passenger area of the helicopter, The Brunette and I, as the pilot flew us back to the city. I don't know what was going through her mind because I was drowning under what was happening in mine, but we stayed tight the whole flight, her head on my shoulder, my head on top of hers. And we both understood.  
"Don't retire on me just yet," Agent 14 had told us over the radio as we'd parachuted. "I have another job coming up which requires your… skillset."  
F*** him. I'm done.  
But I already knew that she's not.

Her guard's down now. I know that what happened last night was just because we didn't know if we'd survive today. Like she'd admitted, she'd used me and like I said, that's fine by me.  
We're in the same apartment where we'd dressed as cops, got our orders to execute Dima Popov and gathered this morning to go over the plan for the prison break, but we're not bothered because the body of its owner, the pilot that had tried to betray us, stayed in the plane with Rashkovsky, got burned with it when he abandoned it for his car, wherever that was.

The chopper pilot has called dibs, but I think Agent 14 has already beaten him to it.  
I don't know if its late or early. I've abandoned beer for bourbon and she's drinking vodka Martinis. The chopper pilot's long since passed out and the str*pper that's been performing for us all night gives The Brunette a lingering kiss as she finishes dancing for her before she heads out.  
Like I say, I don't judge. But you don't think I'm gonna miss _that_ show, do you?

Fortunately for me, The Brunette's not bothered. She gets it.  
"Did you leave a little wifey behind when you split, Harvey," she asks me.  
I shake my head. "No."  
"Never married?"  
"No."  
"Spoil me with the details, why don't you," she quips. "Come on, why not? Surely a career cop like you had a woman once upon a time? Or was it a guy…"  
"I had a girlfriend," I sigh. "A fiancée, even."  
"What happened?"  
"The job. That, and the miscarriage."  
"Jeez, I'm sorry," she says, and she means it.  
I shrug. "It was long ago. She met a guy with a nine to five, settled down. They have two kids and his career's going well."  
"Doesn't that sting?"  
"A little bit," I admit. "But they say if you love somebody…"  
"Yeah," she softly agrees.  
"You?"  
"A long time ago. Another life. Literally."  
My phone buzzes. Lester. "Is our lovely lethal friend with you," he asks. I wave a hand to beckon her over and hold the phone between us so she can hear him too without me having to put the speaker on.  
"You'll be glad to know the payments have been made for your exploits today," Lester says. "I don't want to know, I saw it on the news and I didn't want to know _that_ much."  
"Tell us how and where we access it," I interrupt.  
"Well, I'll say the usual channels which she'll understand but you won't, so I'll look after you. Again. I've just tied up a deal on a place you can live in too so you're not risking some semi-conscious motel clerk calling a sighting of you into the LSPD for a few extra bucks on their menial salary. It's on Hangman Avenue in the Los Santos Hills. Not exactly a mansion, but it's pretty nice. There's a little surprise for you in the garage. Two actually, so make sure you don't miss anything."  
"How much did we make," I ask.  
"Enough to draw attention if you don't have a clever investor laundering it for you," Lester says.

"Wait, how did you close a property deal that fast?"

The Brunette smiles and rolls her eyes.

"Did you think I've just been sitting in my fortress, alone, waiting for Shaun Harvey to return and give my life meaning? I needed to launder some proceeds from some other gig a month or so back. The deal's been going through for weeks, and now I just need somebody to live there for tax purposes. I used the name on the ID you bought your Ubermacht with because I don't think Shaun Harvey moving into a local property after a day like today will go unnoticed."

"I owe you one," I say.  
"You owe me a lot, but actually I already got a sizeable financial renumeration thanks to there being an extra dividend to divvy up," Lester says. "So when can you make it out to your new abode?"  
"Man, I'm hammered right now," I say. "Probably not until after lunch."  
"You're a disgrace. I'm amazed you survived beyond puberty."  
You and me both, Lest.


	7. Chapter 7

Part 7 : Shaun Harvey

Getting drunk last night was a mistake. I feel horrible and I'm starting all over again with the weaning off alcohol thing. When I passed out, I dreamed of the faces of guards and N.O.O.S.E. agents, and of Ericsson screaming in fiery anguish.

When I wake up, I'm still in sprawled on a sofa in the dead pilot's apartment. The Brunette's gone. The chopper pilot groans as he comes around at the same time on another sofa and he greets me with a tired "hey".

"Hi," I croak.

He collapses back on the sofa. "Oh man, I got so stoned last night." He lies there a moment more, then sits up and feels around the sofa until he finds his bong. "Want a hit," he offers. I shake my head so he goes ahead and takes one himself.

We ordered a lot of food last night, pizza, Mexican, Chinese... I bought booze, which might have been a bad idea, but while I was buying I bought chips, nuts and pretzels, and he seems to have eaten most of it. "Thanks for having our a$$ yesterday," I say. He flashes me a half smile of acknowledgement and then coughs.

"Don't mention it. Good job putting the a$$hole down that tried to screw us," he croaks. He looks about. "Where'd the woman go?"

I shrug.

"You tight with her," he asks.

"Tight how," I ask.

"Y'know… is she, like, your girl or whatever?"

"No. No, she's not my girl."

"So you don't mind if I hit on her?"

I laugh. "Good luck," I say.

Everything hurts when I stand up and I stagger my way towards the shower, lock the door and freshen up as quick as I can. While I'm in the apartment, I take the opportunity to retrieve the clothes I left here when I changed into the cop uniform, and take the cash back out of the lining.

There's still unopened cans of beer in the apartment's kitchen. I open one and take a pull, then stuff a couple more into my pockets. The chopper pilot's watching me with interest. "Beer 'o'clock already," he asks me with a knowing smile.

"I'm using it to cut down," I explain. "Up to a couple of days ago breakfast was vodka."

"Good for you," he says and starts rummaging through kitchen drawers until he finds a pen and a notepad.

"I was an alcoholic," he explains. "I got an addictive personality, so these days I try and stick to weed." That explains all the food he put away. He finishes scribbling his number down, tears off the page and hands it to me. "You have any trouble getting clean, call me. When you _are_ clean, _call_ me," he says. "It's not something you can keep off on your own."

Not likely, but I pocket the page and nod a thanks.

Things are looking up as the cab pulls up outside the house on Hangman Avenue. Or not - Lester's Asea is parked outside. I hazily recall that he'd said something about the garage so I go in there.

Lester's sat in a wheelchair and there's a black-haired woman wearing a T-shirt with some metal band's album cover splashed across it, jeans and toe-shoes leaning over a laptop on a workbench. But I'm not bothered about either of them.

"I thought this would've been impounded," I breathe.

"It was," Lester says. "They finally auctioned it a few months ago, but it wasn't too difficult to track down…"

"For _me_ to track down," the woman interrupts.

"For Paige to track down," Lester concedes. "She's not been dry stored since you left her, but…"

"It's perfect," I say.

My old, beloved Benefactor Glendale. The car I bought with my first LSPD paycheck.

Now, I'm not a car guy, and I've in no way lovingly restored some 'used classic', but there's just something about this old car. I hated having to leave it, but by the time I'd got to the day I had to flee, the Glendale didn't run anymore. Now I pop the hood and even _I_ can tell the engine in it is a million times better than the one I left it with. I find the keys behind the visor and fire it up. It starts first time, doesn't even need to turn over.

"Thank you," I say. Ridiculous, I know, but seeing the old heap again makes me emotional.

"Thanks nothing," Paige complains. " _You_ need to stop stealing cars. You're drawing _too much_ attention."

"You'll find clean clothes in the closet," Lester says. "Of course I had to approximate your size…"

" _I_ told him your size. They'll _fit_ ," Paige snaps.

Lester chuckles awkwardly. "They're not as high end as you're probably getting used to but they're not heavily... soiled..."

"Whatever. It'll be nice to be clean."

"Yes, it's all very lovely. Congratulations on the new home. I hope you'll be very happy here," Paige drones in monotone.

"Sorry, am I keeping you from something?"

"We're helping _you_ a$$hole," she snaps back at me.

I sigh, shrug. "Well, I guess we'd better get to it then."

We're sat around my new table just out of my new kitchen. Lester's having me draw him up the schematics of the truck heist as far as I knew them. Shame I left my first draft in a dumpster at the Pink Cage motel…

So I draw up a fresh set of plans, as best as I can remember, and I walk them through it.

"I thought I saw Ericsson at Bolingbroke," I admit, when I get done telling them how the armored truck heist was supposed to go.

"Thought?"

"I'm pretty sure, but it was a tense situation. He was on the other side of a fence."

"So you might have, y'know, in your… condition," Lester stumbles.

"Yes, I might have hallucinated him. I don't know. But he seemed real. And angry."

Lester had my new fridge stocked with new beer. I'm drinking one now and feeling slightly more human. Hair of the dog and all that.

"Okay, we'll look into it," Lester starts.

"He mentioned a Fed," I interrupt, remembering. "I didn't get a full name. He said something like 'Andrea'."

Lester and Paige share a look.

"What," I say.

"Like I said, we'll look into it," Lester says. "Going back to the truck heist, anyone else on the crew you can remember?"

"Just one," I say. "Pawel Verzynski."

"He shouldn't be too hard to find," says Paige.

"Okay," I say. "Where are we with the militia group that collected the Lieutenant? They told me Butler would be unharmed if I returned the Lieutenant but now they want to know where the money is too. And I've had no proof of life."

"That concerned me too, when you told me about your first encounter," Lester says. "I tried to look into whether anybody else is concerned about Detective Butler's disappearance and managed to track her down to the Homicide department at Vinewood. Her cellphone's been in her desk drawer all week and there's been no sign of her or her partner, but nobody's raised any alarms. Which _does_ point towards an undercover assignment. Beyond that, I'm afraid I can't confirm anything else yet."

"The armored Insurgent is a pretty hefty piece of hardware. There aren't too many around, but tracking who has them isn't easy either," Paige adds. "The kind of buyers go to great lengths to remain anonymous."

"Does Devin Weston have one?"

"Did you listen to a _word_ I just said?"

"Alright, fine," I sigh. "So what do I do with myself other than sit here killing myself with booze and chasing a woman who might already be dead? Plan a second prison break for Ericsson, maybe?"

Lester waves a hand over the paper on the table. "We're missing something here," he says. "It might help if you retrace all your steps in the days leading up to the hit on the truck."

"And see if you can learn anything from this Verzynski guy," Paige adds. She's clicking on her laptop, as she has been doing the whole time she's been here. "He used to run a private agency. I've sent the details to your phone."

"But keep a low profile," Lester pleads.

" _Really_ low," Paige insists.

"It seems like the camera feeds in the prison were hacked so it doesn't _look_ like the attack was recorded..."

"But somebody was watching the live feed. Probably whoever was guiding you through the Penitentiary," Paige interrupts.

"Either way, you don't want to risk being recognised," Lester finishes.

I nod, slowly, swallow some beer.

"Did they... were there any survivors?"

"A few," Lester says. "One guy with a shoulder wound, a few of them with leg injuries. There's a guy in traction with a broken back but he's already opening a workplace lawsuit to sue his employer so he'll be fine."

I'm shaking again, but not from the booze. I fight back tears of, not relief, but... I don't know, something. Yeah, we killed a lot of people yesterday, but I don't think _I_ actually killed anyone. It feels as though weight has been lifted.

Paige and Lester see themselves out and I call Verzynski's agency number and leave an email address for him to contact me on his voicemail. Then I have a shower and change into some of the new clothes Lester's bought me, jeans, a white T-shirt and a blue plaid shirt. I'm still wearing the black boots The Brunette bought for me in Sandy Shores because they're comfortable, but I wash all the dirt and blood off them in the garage.

I fill up the Glendale at the gas station at El Burro Heights and then head on over to my old house at Sustancia Road in East LS. If I'm retracing my steps then that's the place to start.

It's still for sale. The Dynasty 8 sign has faded, the colours all but gone. Whereas the Glendale overcame me with joy, seeing the old place brings a pang of sadness. I lived here with Her, before we split up, and I stayed there until I left Los Santos. It was seized afterwards, of course, and sold off by the Department. None of my stuff will still be there, and going inside would be foolish. Hell, it's probably not wise to be in the neighbourhood with the same car.

I cast my mind back to the first day I found out we were on for a job. Where had I been?

Alcoholic. Waking up, late for work again. Staggering through the mess I called home looking for my first hit of the day, cheap, nasty but high volume vodka by that point. My phone was ringing somewhere. Ericsson telling me he was on his way to pick me up.

I'd always had a generous measure of bourbon when I got home from a long shift. Even more so when I'd had a bad one. Los Santos leaves no shortage of horrific unsolved crimes. But after the miscarriage, when I should have been there for Her the most, I couldn't. I'd hidden from it in my work and in the bottle. I'd failed Her. She thought it was that I didn't care, or that I blamed Her, but that wasn't it.

That wasn't it at all. But I could never explain it and in the end She couldn't bear it anymore.

Of course I miss Her. If she wanted me back, by some strange and impossible twist of circumstance, I'd probably take Her in a heartbeat. But actually, Her getting settled with Her husband is the best thing that happened to Her. Letting Her go is the one thing I've done right. As long as She's got Her family, I'm leaving Her well alone.

Damn it, I've lost track again. Where was I? Right. Half cut and waiting for Ericsson.

 _He drives us to The Arcadia Business Centre, across the road from the Union Depository, and we pull into the underground parking lot. The Lieutenant's there waiting for us and so is Verzynski in a separate car. I don't know Verzynski. Ericsson and the Lieutenant don't know him either, but we know he's one of Madrazo's guys as well as a cop from some other precinct._

 _The Lieutenant handles brief introductions then Ericsson asks "so what are we doing here, Ray?"_

 _From a suit pocket, the Lieutenant produces four envelopes, passes one to each of us. "We've got a credible threat," he says out loud and casts a glance over his shoulder towards the exit of the underground lot and beyond, across the street, the entrance of the Union Depository._

 _We all open the envelopes. I have to squint at it, shake my head, look again to make sure I'm not hallucinating._

 _"_ _How credible," I manage to croak. Already my throat's feeling dry._

 _"_ _Very," the Lieutenant insists._

 _I'm aware of Madrazo. I've met him a couple of times, and I'm aware that, indirectly, I've let some things go that would, if you looked hard enough, appear as if I'd done Mr Madrazo a small favor. But I'm not one of 'Madrazo's guys'. Everything I've done has been at the behest of the Lieutenant. I've never been on Madrazo's payroll per se, either; I've received small concessions here and there but again, always from the Lieutenant._

 _I used to use that argument to deny to myself that I was corrupt. The fact that I had the same argument several times tells you how much I managed to convince myself._

 _The envelopes the Lieutenant has just given us contain identical notes that we won't read out loud, that we'll each burn later on, when we're alone. Those notes tell us Madrazo wants us for a certain endeavour for which we will each receive $10,000. In one go, cash, unmarked used bills. Whatever this is, it's big._

 _"_ _Just the four of us," Ericsson asks._

 _"_ _The, er,_ source _, he wants to keep the circle pretty tight," Verzynski says. "Lieutenant Gray and I are directly involved, you guys are… backing us up…"_

 _"_ _My guys are_ in _," the Lieutenant snaps. "I'm vouching for them."_

 _"_ _Alright," Verzynski sighs. "Beyond that, he's got his own people."_

 _"_ _So what's the intel," asks Ericsson._

 _The Lieutenant raises an arm, indicating Ericsson's car. "Why don't we take a ride," he says._

I stand on the pavement in front of the Arcadia, looking across at the depository, watching as a truck makes a scheduled delivery. Nobody screeches up to intercept. Nobody opens fire. The shutter opens, the truck rolls in without even having to slow down, the shutter closes. It's almost disappointing.

Madrazo had used a team of pyros to rig some harmless pipe bombs in crowded areas where they'd cause panic. He'd also got some on the armored truck's route to divert it to where we wanted it to go. I walk back into the underground parking lot, get into the Glendale, and take a drive along the alternative route we'd made sure it had taken.

I make the mistake of turning on the radio. In the aftermath of what The Brunette and I did yesterday, the airwaves are full of little else but rolling news about the prison break of Maxim Rashkovsky from Bolingbroke Penitentiary. I wonder if I should even be outside at all, and I'm hit with a fresh wave of guilt over the prison guards and N.O.O.S.E. agents that were killed for Rashkovsky, so bad I have to pull over and get out of the car to double over and fight off the nausea.

Who the hell is that Rashkovsky guy anyway? And why did 'Agent 14' go to so much trouble?

It smells of a clandestine operation and, if I think about it, it would make sense to use underground professionals for such a job rather than trained agents. Plausible deniability. I vaguely recall hearing something about an argument in Congress over funding between the FIB and IAA a while back, but would one of them really pull something so brazen on home soil? Especially after what happened the last time?

After a few minutes, the urge to throw up passes and a minute later I get back in the car, but I keep the window wound down as I resume my drive.

 _I sat in the back with Verzynski as Ericsson drove, the Lieutenant in the shotgun seat guiding him through the armored truck's likely route to the airport._

 _"_ _Who's is the money," Ericsson asked as he took a right out of the Arcadia lot, then right again at the intersection._

 _"_ _I didn't ask, the source didn't say," replied the Lieutenant._

 _"_ _Okay, what about an escort," I asked. "Is the Department handling that?"_

 _We were rolling now along the Olympic Parkway towards Downtown and Little Seoul beyond. It's a wide open road, you'd need two semi-trucks at least to block the traffic, but there'd still be escape routes to the sides. Hitting it here will be hard._

 _"_ _Merryweather's doing the escort," said Verzynski._

 _"_ _Jesus, Merryweather?" That was Ericsson. "Domestically? That's some_ serious _firepower!"_

 _"_ _What's the plan for dealing with them," I asked._

 _"_ _The escort's not our problem," Verzynski interrupted, before the Lieutenant could reply._

 _"_ _Left here," the Lieutenant said, before shooting a grimace at Verzynski. Clearly, this would be an uneasy partnership. "The source will handle Merryweather. Our job is to redirect the truck where_ we _want it to go."_

 _"_ _Okay... but the truck will have at least one pre-determined backup route," Ericsson said as he guided the car South down onto Calais Avenue which we follow down to the Greenwich Parkway . From here, it's pretty much a straight run right the way through to LSX. Take a right behind a car body repair shop and the road takes you to a private entrance airside. "How are we going to get it to ignore that?"_

 _"_ _Mainly by having you be the one driving it," the Lieutenant told him._

 _"_ _What," Ericsson cried._

 _"_ _The source will be running a distraction throughout the city," Verzynski said. "It will keep most of the Department busy, and also shut off most of the probable routes."_

 _"_ _When the truck is separated from the escort,_ you _will call LSPD for backup, but you'll be calling_ me _," added the Lieutenant to Ericsson._

 _"_ _What about me," I asked._

 _"_ _We're gonna show you where you'll set up a road block. There might be some uniforms to assist you but you'll have rank. When the truck comes by…"_

 _"_ _Make sure you direct it where we show you," Verzynski finished, interrupting the Lieutenant again._

 _"_ _What if anyone asks where Ericsson is," I protested. "He's my partner, we're usually together when we're on the clock."_

 _"'_ _Ericsson' will be with you the whole time," I'm told._

I turn the Glendale right out of The Arcadia and then I go _left_ at the intersection. On the day we'd hit the truck, four pipe bombs went off across Los Santos, but the important one was on the corner down here so immediately the truck was forced to abandon its primary route. The other three pipe bombs were at Portola Drive, North Rockford Drive and in the Casino at Vinewood Race Track and within minutes, the LSPD was alerted to a full scale terrorist incident. FIB were mobilised as well; outgoing teams despatched to the blast sites paid little or no attention to the semi-truck entering the parking lot under their building from the Western side on Power Street as their units hurried out both exits to spread across the city.

The semi-truck driver had a fix on the armored truck's GPS. When it turned onto Elgin Avenue, diverted by another pipe bomb on the corner of Elgin and San Andreas Boulevard, which coincided with one on Vinewood Boulevard, the semi-truck thundered out of the Eastern exit, putting itself between the armored truck and it's escort. The driver dived out and detonated the PE4-laden trailer, creating an apparent failed attack on the FIB headquarters and taking Merryweather out of the equation, before a third wave of pipe bombs spread law enforcement resources even thinner across the city.

Now I'm driving up Elgin, where the Lieutenant had been waiting to pick up the truck. Ericsson would have called a mayday over the radio and the Lieutenant would pick him up and get the truck underground, off the streets.

That's where Madrazo's crew hit crew would halt the truck with their high-power shotgun capable of blasting right through the reinforced windshield. The underground passageway they used blocked the GPS giving the hit crew the opportunity to disable it so that when the truck came out on the other side, Gruppe 6 no longer had any idea of its whereabouts.

By now there were instructions all over the airwaves. Every police unit in Los Santos was locking down the city for the feds to hunt the perpetrators of these attacks. Nobody got in or out without our say-so, without prior authorisation.

I was running one of the roadblocks. Me and the fake Ericsson. Another pipe bomb forced us to let the armored truck off the road.

I pull up now to where the Lieutenant had me stationed. That day comes back to me vividly. But there's something else.

This is where they found the bodies of the heist crew, how they'd pinned the heist on me. Four of them, all piled up . One of them, I'd believed right up until this week, was Ericsson. They were all wearing black coveralls and hockey masks.

Oh sh*t... Harvey, you're an _idiot_.

Ericsson and Madrazo's hit team were masked in full Gruppe 6 uniforms. Those uniforms include helmets and balaclavas.

Which means the crew they found at my roadblock _wasn't_ Madrazo's.

I remember how they'd looked at me out of the truck's cab, staring at me through those hockey masks. And I'd waved them through to the diversion we'd arranged without even realising we'd been screwed over because I was a stupid, numb, slow-witted alcoholic.

So who the hell were they? And who hit _them_?

I realise something else now, too. The fake 'Ericsson' with me, wasn't he one of Madrazo's guys too? Why in Hell did he not notice anything, either?

I'm about to put a call in to Lester with the Revelations of Harvey, but when I get my phone out of my pocket I see that Verzynski has emailed me back.

He wants to meet at the Land Act Dam, East of Mirror Park, ASAP.

I park up the Glendale somewhere out of the way where it won't get towed and walk the rest of the way. No sign of Verzynski yet. No engineers around tending to the dam either.

I look out over the reservoir and muse over what an isolated place this must feel like. And I realise, too late, that I've been set up.

My chest explodes before the noise of the shot reaches my ears. It throws me backwards several feet before I land heavily in the dirt, blood already coming from my mouth as well as the wound in my chest. It burns cold. I feel myself start to shiver.

Somewhere I'm vaguely aware that I should take my shirt off to try and stem the bleeding, but I'm losing the ability to move my arms.

It's disappointing that I'm going to die out here all alone.

I'm sorry, Candace. I'm so, so sorry.


	8. Chapter 8

Part 8 : Pawel Verzynski

I've just dropped Cinnamon off so she can start work when my cellphone rings.  
Let's just get this out of the way. Cinnamon's my girlfriend but, for all intents and purposes, I'm currently her pimp.

I used to be a detective, would you believe. Was still trying to be up until a couple months ago, but Private Investigator license, firearm permit, concealed weapons permit and mandatory million-dollar insurance aren't cheap and they all need renewal every two years. With the slow business I've been having since I opened my private agency (total staff: me) I couldn't afford to renew 'em all over again just for two more years of the same.

So now Cinnamon's a$$ is our primary, damn near only, source of income. I can tell she really doesn't want to tonight but neither of us knows how to do anything else, Leon who runs the Unicorn ain't hiring performers _or_ muscle and we need to pay rent.

So my evening's not off to a great start when I answer my phone. It's been a long time since I heard the voice that speaks to me from it. "Shaun Harvey's back," he says.  
There's a number of questions running through my head right now but what I ask him is "what? Since when?"  
"Since around 7pm when he walked out of Los Santos International Airport," he says.  
Just when you think that wound's healed, somebody goes and rips off the bandaid.  
"Did you grab him," I ask.  
"The crew at the Airport wanted to, but I convinced them it wasn't the right play."  
"The right _play_?"

Really? You grab him, you interrogate him, you keep him under florescent lights for the whole 24 hours you can hold him for and never bring him the coffee you promised while asking irrelevant questions he can't answer in between repeatedly asking him "where's the f***ing money?" If that doesn't work, bring out a phonebook. How is that not the right 'play'?  
"Listen, I like how neat and tidy all this has been. Harvey disappeared along with the money, no prior complaints about his conduct. A little bit of public outcry to begin with but none of his convictions have been overturned. Just an overworked civil servant getting too tempting an opportunity on a very harrowing day."  
"I feel a 'but' coming," I say impatiently.  
He chuckles. "Yeah, there's a 'but'. There are elections coming up. Elections I want to win. I want to get on the City Council and recovering a missing $5million will go a long way with winning the hearts and minds of the voters."  
"And you're coming to me why," I demand.  
"How's the business going," he asks. My silence gives him all he needs. "I want this off the books until the money's found, then I want the LSPD to be the boys that bring it in. I know you ain't one of Gray's boys and after that heist went South, I hear you ain't one of Madrazo's boys anymore, either."  
"So I do the work and you get all the glory? You'll forgive me if I'm failing to see an upside here."  
"Now hold on a minute. You prove you're capable, I'll have your license reinstated. And I'll kick you a bunch of LSPD unsolved's to keep you afloat, monthly stipend for the first year. How's that sound?"  
How's that sound? Too good to pass up, and the f***er knows it.  
I check my watch; 21:07. "Okay," I sigh. "Any hints on Harvey's current whereabouts?"  
"That's for you to figure out, Detective," he says, and hangs up.

It was in 2008 when I met Harvey and his partner Ericsson. I've not seen either of them since and from what I gather, neither has anybody else, so I couldn't even guess at where Harvey's likely to be headed.  
The only thing I do know, back before he split a few days after I met him, he worked for Lieutenant Raymond Gray out of Mission Row.  
Back in the day Gray was larger than life. He's not had quite the same swagger ever since. Something he and I have in common; Madrazo trusted us and doesn't anymore. I tried to break Gray's shell once before but he was a stone. He knew something – not everything but _something_ , but whatever it was he wouldn't let on.  
I hope the speakeasy Gray used to hang out at is still there and get into my Albany to head out to Mirror Park. I know Cinnamon's watching me go, a little worried and a little p*ssed at the same time, but I ignore her for now because I'm wondering if I can avoid being forced to sell the car.

I park across the street from the Mirror Park Tavern. That place is unsavoury but a little obvious, but it's separated by a parking lot from the liquor store next door that looks like it's on its last legs. You need to head through to the back where there's a doorway into a secluded bar which is where the joint really makes its money. You don't exactly need a password to get in, but the place is discreet. I'm not planning on going inside for now. I'm just going to sit in my car and watch. And wait.  
It's getting late and I'm getting pissed off. I was never one for this patience sh*t but at 22:18 a beaten up heap you'd only drive if you'd stolen it rolls up and, sure enough, out walks Shaun Harvey. I have to look closely to be sure because he's shaved his head and become even more slovenly since our brief introduction five years ago, but it's him.  
He _definitely_ doesn't look like a man sitting on five million dollars.  
At first, nothing seems to be happening. I sit there five minutes and contemplate going in, but then there's a gunshot. A few minutes later, Harvey stumbles back out to the heap and drives away. I'm firing up the car and turning around to follow him when three more guys come out. Two of them are helping another one that's hopping and crying like a baby with one foot in the air. I pay little attention, but in the rearview I see Gray come out a few seconds later, watching them distastefully and hurrying to his own car to distance himself from them.  
Mental note. But for now I'm following Harvey. I keep a good distance back, hoping he won't spot me in his mirrors, and follow him a ways out of the city to a motel in the Grand Senora Desert. I suppose it makes sense that he'd pick somewhere out of the way to get his head down. I pull up at the far end of the parking lot and prepare to settle down for the long wait until morning when he reappears and moves again.

I'm dozing in the car when, in the early hours, three black 4x4's rock up into the motel lot. A posse of angry looking Mexicans kick Harvey's door open and a few minutes later they're dragging him naked and hooded to the trunk of one of their vehicles.  
Sh*t. Madrazo.  
Nothing good can come of following Harvey now, so I head back into the city wondering if I'm not too late to catch up with Ray Gray.

There's a cat house in downtown Vinewood he used to hang out at, a girl without a visa called Rosio that he liked to spend his time with. Maybe I'll catch him there. I want to talk to Madrazo too, but it's best I do that from a safe distance. I'll call him at his house later.  
I miss the odd favors Madrazo used to have me do, the extra money came in handy. I miss the salary of the LSPD as well. Right after Madrazo realised he'd been ripped off, his goons had me picked up and I got a heavy beating, but in the end, although he didn't believe either of the cops that hadn't gone missing were innocent, he realised he couldn't prove anything against us either. Since then I can count on one hand the number of jobs he's had me do for him.  
Right after I got back from the beating, the Captain from the Mission Row precinct steps right into my Captain's office and asks him which of his guys is most likely to be on Madrazo's payroll. Guess how long I was able to stick around after that?

Gray's car isn't in the cat house lot, but Rosio still works from the same suite. I can tell because her door's decorated with what looks like a pink feather boa with fairy lights. I kick the door open just in case she's got any other company, but it's 05:46, she's alone, asleep and she springs up out of her bed in shock.  
I put a finger to my lips as I close the door behind me, but she's scared and immediately starts with threats.  
"Have you seen Lieutenant Gray tonight," I ask firmly, interrupting her. I'm not sure what she spits in reply but I'm sure I hear the word "puta." I take a few steps towards her and she shrinks back towards the edge of her bed.  
Behind me the door is flung open again and the madame stands there, a couple of other girls loitering uncertainly behind her. I turn to look at her and she freezes.  
To Rosio, I ask "do you know who I am?"  
She nods.  
"Then you'll answer my question."  
"He h-hasn't been around in… in a long time," she stammers.  
My reputation precedes me.  
"How long? Like, a week?"  
"Last m-month," she says. I come and sit on the bed next to her now. The madame is glaring at me but she's not gonna move.  
"Okay. _Thank_ you Rosio." She flinches at my mention of her name. "How come he doesn't come around much anymore?"  
"H-he's scared," she says. "He s-says people are w-watching him."  
"What people?"  
"I don't know. H-he doesn't know."  
"Does he ever talk about The Heist?"  
"That's _enough_ ," the madame starts, but I silence her with a glare.

Then I turn back to her. "Rosio," I implore, speaking softly now.  
"He s-says he's been looking over his s-shoulder ever since that day," she says.

I nod a thanks to her, stand up, peel some cash off my roll and drop it on her bed. Give some more to the madame for the damage, which leaves me almost broke, and push past her back down the stairs to my car.

She gets brave and starts hurling abuse as I drive away.

"Whaddya _want_ Pawel," Mel groans at me. I'm calling her from my car as I drive from the cat house towards the hospital at Pillbox Hill.  
"Just need to know if you've had a guy in with a serious foot injury."  
"Last I heard, you ain't a cop no more," she complains.  
"Just do me a favour, Mel, willya?"  
"No, you ain't a cop and no, I ain't tellin' you about the guy that came in last night with half his right boot shot off."  
"Right," I reply with a grin. "Thanks for nothin' Mel."  
"F*** you later," she signs off. I'm not sure if that's an insult or a proposition?

Ten minutes later I'm parked up in the hospital's lot and helping myself to the front desk's register like I own the place.  
"I told you before Verzynski, you can't just come in here and _do_ that sh*t," complains Mel.  
"Good to see you too, Mel," I say. I've got what I need, and head off to the ward where the guy I'm after is listed as being in. I wouldn't be surprised if one day Mel yells for security, but she ain't done it yet and today's not the day either.  
I find Stumpy from Lieutenant Gray's bar languishing in a hospital bed, with a couple of his buddies flanking the room and moaning about the lack of cell phone service.

The one nearest the door puts a hand up to stop me, puts it on my chest as I go in. "Whoa, whoa, whoa, you're not a doctor," he starts.  
I break the fingers on his hand, then his wrist just for the hell of it and admit "no I'm not, go find yourself one."  
Stumpy's gone white with terror. Buddy #2 quickly puts his phone away and puts up his dukes. "Oh yeah, you want a shot at _this_ , huh," he goads. I punch him square in the throat while he's still mid-flow. That shuts him up and he drops to the floor, unconscious.  
"What the _f***_ get the hell _away_ from me," yells Stumpy, all but collapsing off his bed and cowering into the corner of the ward as I stride round the bed towards him. Don't even bother avoiding the guy I just put down, I use him as a stepping stone. I wonder if Stumpy's wet himself? Doesn't look like it. I must be losing my touch.  
"Where does Lieutenant Gray hang around these days," I ask, firmly.  
"Jesus, man, the _precinct_ ," he pleads.  
I scowl at him. "Do I _look_ like I want to walk into some _police station_ for some nice little _chat_ ," I ask.  
He's shaking his head furiously, putting his arms up to try and ward me off. "No man no man please, if he's not at work he'll be at the bar or his house or at the Unicorn…"  
"The Unicorn?"  
" _Yeah_ ," the guy says. "He doesn't see his m-mistress so much anymore so he hangs round there."  
"Okay. Hey, _relax_ ," I say. I grab him by the shoulders and help him back onto his bed, get him nice and settled with the blanket. Then I give him a friendly pat on his injured foot as I head out.  
 _Now_ he wets himself.  
I hear heavy footsteps coming toward me so I decide to go out the back way.

"Did you find out anything," he asks me when I pick up his call on my way home.  
"I'm working on it. Madrazo's currently doing an interrogation of his own."  
"Damn it, Verzynski!"  
"Relax. Harvey disappears again, we know he took the money. Follow Madrazo and maybe _nail_ him on something this time. Madrazo lets him go, then I'll keep digging."  
"Why in the hell didn't you pick Harvey up _first_?"  
Now what was it he said when I asked him the same thing earlier? "It wasn't the right play."  
"Don't be a smart a$$! I want to know what happened to that _money_ , Verzynski, make it _happen_."  
Sure. But you're just gonna have to f*** yourself for today because first I need to know about _my_ money.  
Cinnamon's sulking at the kitchen table in her terry robe and a towel wrapped around her wet hair when I get back in. "Where've you been," she asks as I check the coffee percolator, see that she's not set it up and get to work filling it.  
"'Where've you been' or 'where've _you_ been'," I ask her as I work. She goes quiet and turns away.  
Once the percolator's set I turn it on and let it get to work and go sit opposite her at the table. "I got a call last night," I say.  
Her eyes flick around to me. "So?"  
"So, Shaun Harvey strolled through LSX last night."  
That gets her attention. "Shaun Harvey the guy who screwed Madrazo's heist?"  
"Allegedly."  
She sits back. "So what's that got to do with you?"  
I sniff hard. "If I can find out what happened to the money I can maybe find a way to get you off the streets again," I say.  
She leans forward, rests her head on her hand and her elbow on the table. I hate it when she does that, but I let it slide. "We've spoken about this before," she reminds me.  
My turn to look away. "I know."  
"So is this a _thing_? You're being paid to find the money? Or are you lookin' to get what's left of Harvey's five mill and we _split_?"  
I stand and go back to the percolator. Coffee is dripping through into the pot, so I wash us a couple mugs from the pile of dirty crockery by the sink. "It's a proposition," I admit. "If I get a lead on what really happened, I get my license renewal paid for. And a stipend, and some unsolved's."  
Silence.  
"Alright so tell me about _your_ night."  
"Why? You don't wanna know," she snaps at me.  
About my girlfriend f***ing other a$$holes for money? Damn right I don't wanna know.  
"How much did you make," I sigh. She picks her purse up off the floor, empties it on the table. I count it. Nearly enough, actually. She's done good, but...  
"How many," I ask, a little more firmly than I'd intended.

She shrugs.

"More than three," I sigh.  
"Three ain't gonna keep this roof over our heads," he snaps.  
We both hover in uneasy silence then while the percolator works.  
Eventually, I sigh. "You did good," I admit. I kiss the top of her head and fix her a cup of coffee.  
"I'm going to bed," she says tiredly, getting up and taking the mug with her. "You comin'," she asks, softly.  
"Yeah."

Cinnamon and I are both instinctive night owls so sleeping the day away isn't a problem for us. That said, when I wake up and the clock says 16:28, that's still early, but I need to make a phonecall so I get up and go into our en-suite.  
"What time is it," she groans as I'm getting dressed.  
"16:42," I read from my watch. "Go back to sleep. I'll be back soon."  
"Where are you going," she asks me sleepily.  
"Just need to make a call, and follow up on some things," I tell her.  
"Be careful," she says.

I'm careful. I place the call from a phonebooth in Morningwood and withhold the number.  
"You had an early start this morning," I say when Madrazo answers.  
"And what concern is that of yours," he demands.  
"Well, you know, I was hoping Harvey told you what he did with the money so you could finally pay me the ten grand you owe me."  
He laughs. It's not a pleasant sound.  
"Harvey says he doesn't have the money," he says.  
"He doesn't look like he has it," I admit.  
"So I'm still no closer to knowing which of you _ripped me off_ ," he shouts. "But Harvey said he'd look into it for me," he adds after an uncomfortably long pause. "Tell you what, whoever gets me the money first gets paid what you'd have got if one of you _hadn't_ been a _traitor_."  
"How do you know it wasn't one of _your_ guys," I ask him.  
"Because none of _my_ guys ever pretended to be _cops_ ," he spits.  
I'm about to ask where Harvey is now, but he's already hung up.

Cinnamon's up and writing in a notebook when I come home. "Whatcha doin'," I ask her.

She shakes her head and gathers up loose sheets she's got spread over the table. "Workin' on an idea," she says.

I sit down opposite her. "Wanna tell me about it?"

"Not yet."

Oh.

I sit there mulling over how I'm going to phrase my next question. She gets fed up of waiting and prompts "what?"

"I need some cash," I say.

" _Seriously_ , Pawel? First you say you don't want me out earning, and then you're burning your way through it? What the hell do you need it for?"

"You don't wanna know."

If looks could kill, the one she's giving me now would leave me bloodied and mutilated, but from my conversation with Stumpy this morning, it doesn't seem like I have much choice.

Eventually, she relents. "Fine, whatever, take what you need. But don't you _dare_ say anything to me about _my_ work."

We don't talk much the rest of the night and I drop her off at her spot just after dark finally envelopes the city before I go get something to eat. It's 23.56 by the Albany's clock when I pull into the Vanilla Unicorn's parking lot and I spot Gray's car in the darkened far corner. I park closer to the exit to get away quicker if things go South and head inside, nodding a greeting to the doorman who invites me to have a good time, after he's looked me up and down for any obvious weapons.

Low profile. I quickly scan around the patrons, but not too obviously. You don't want anyone to catch you looking at them in a place like this if they're not one of the performers. There's a guy at the bar with his right hand in a cast that I recognise as Fingers from the hospital, along with another guy I don't know. They're acting like cops, which kind of makes sense. I don't see any sign of Gray, so I take a seat near the stage with my back to the inside wall so I can't have anyone sneak up behind me, and I act like I belong there. I watch the performers working the pole and throw them $20 bills when they finish dancing and come around the patrons collecting payments in their garters. A couple of times I'm propositioned by some of the girls rotating through the club for a private dance, but I turn them down and hope I'm not drawing too much attention to myself in doing so.

Movement at the bar catches my attention. Fingers is talking animatedly to cop guy and the two of them hurry out. I start worrying if I've been discovered, if any second they aren't going to come back in with reinforcements and get their vengeance on me for the hospital. But they don't come back.

Ten minutes goes by. Thirty. An hour. No sign of anyone so I go to the bar. I've spent about two hundred and twenty of Cinnamon's dollars. She's going to be p*ssed. I spend another $10 on an overpriced, watered down vodka and then, finally, Gray makes an appearance. He's being escorted out of the private area by a girl, clearly not bothered by the bouncers as he's acting _very_ personal with her, and staggers his way drunkenly to the exit. I'm gonna catch up with him in a minute, but first I wanna talk to the girl who is now falling exhausted onto one of the barstools.

"Hey," I greet her.

She looks at me with none of the please-give-me-some-of-your-money enthusiasm the girls in here are supposed to portray. "I'm kind of done for tonight honey," she groans.

"I just want to talk. Here, let me buy you a drink," I say. The bartender has already joined us and is looking at me wondering if she needs to press her panic button. I say "whatever she wants is on me."

They both regard me for a few minutes, then the dancer relents, says something I can't hear and the bartender brings the requested drink for her, something red with ice cubes, a straw and an umbrella.

"Thanks," she says and sips through the straw, but she's obviously still wary. The bartender demands payment and I lay down another $10.

"How was your time with Lieutenant Gray," I ask. She immediately leans away on her stool.

I shake my head, open my wallet and lay out $40, what a private dance would normally cost in here. "I'm sorry, I'm not looking to get you in any trouble," I say. "I'm just following up on something."

She takes the money quickly. "About time Internal Affairs picked up on what the cops in here are up to," she says, but then she dashes my hopes of getting anything useful. Or does she?

"You maybe saw just now, the Lieutenant is pretty inebriated. Didn't say much of anything, just spent the entire night pawing at me. I need a shower so bad."

I smile sympathetically. "I'm sorry about that," I say. "Is he always so touchy-feely?"

"Yeah, but he's normally Nikki's client, so I haven't had to deal with him."

"Nikki?"

"Yep. She indulges him, I don't know why. He's a _lousy_ tipper. He always goes straight to her, but she's not been in the last couple days."

"Really? Do you have her surname?"

"Do you have a badge," she counters.

I give her the involuntary smirk I make when I've been caught out. "You've been very helpful," I say and head out to see if Gray's managed to remember which one his car is yet.

I find it in the corner with the tyres slashed and no sign of him. " _Sh*t_ ," I curse to the empty lot. A few seconds later the doorman steps out of the club, zipping up his pants. Remind me never to shake _his_ hand. "Did you see anybody pick up Lieutenant Gray in the past couple minutes," I ask him.

"I don't see _nothin'_ that don't concern the safety of the customers _inside_ ," he says.

My only lead has just disappeared.


	9. Chapter 9

Part 9 : Pawel Verzynski

I catch Cinnamon as she's walking home so I'm able to give her a ride. She's tired and, well, icky, but she seems like she's happy to see me which is the first time in months.

"Have you found Harvey or the money yet," she asks me.

"Not yet, but some interesting things are happening."

"Interesting like you're going to get rich?"

"Interesting like there's more to the story than they reported in the press."

"There's _always_ more to a story than what it says in the press," she laughs. "Wanna know the _true_ score, find the mistress."

"I know," I say. " _You_ told me that so that's what I tried."

"And?"

"Harvey's old Lieutenant is scared. Somebody's watching him, but he doesn't know who."

"That where you were tonight?"

"No. Tonight I was at the Unicorn."

"Damn it Pawel, _that's_ where you spent my money?"

"Yeah," I admit, a little bit ashamedly. "Told you, you wouldn't wanna know."

"You got _that_ right," she snaps. She sinks back in her chair and sighs heavily. "Was it worth it?"

"I'm not sure yet. Gray's regular dancer hasn't been to work in a couple days, could be somethin'."

"Wait a minute," she says and sits up again. "Who's Gray?"

"Harvey's former Lieutenant, from Mission Row," I explain.

She frowns. "Why are you lookin' inta _him_? I thought you was lookin' for _Harvey_?"

"I _am_ ," I say. "But Gray's my only solid lead."

"Oh yeah? How solid?"

"Not very. I kind of lost him."

"What?"

Yeah. Once again, I screwed up.

She sits back and shakes her head, looks out her side window for a while. Eventually, she says "Pawel?"

"Yeah, baby?"

"You know you aren't really cut out for this detective sh*t?"

I know. But I don't wanna get into this again. "What am I gonna do instead," I ask her, trying to keep the anger out of my voice.

"I've been thinking," she says. "You know how you're always askin' me why I can't go high class?"

"You _should_ go high class," I tell her. "You're worth it."

She shakes her head. "No, I told you, I ain't _Vinewood_ , all blonde and fake t*tt**s. Nobody pays big money for ghetto."

"Baby," I start to interrupt. She cuts me off.

"I been workin' on an idea that's more Las Venturas," she says. "There's a dealership in Pillbox Hill that'll give you _guaranteed_ $2000 trade-in on _this_ wreck."

"Hey," I argue. "I like this car."

"You've liked this car for what, ten years? Nobody's gonna give you two grand for it, nothin' like it."

"Well, trade in for _what_ ," I ask.

She does that thing with her voice where she goes all soft and girly on me. "A stretch Patriot?"

" _What_?"

"Listen, they do this thing in Las Venturas, it's VIP, you get the bus, it takes you around the city while you have some girls entertainin' in the back. It'll take you from the airport to a club or a casino or wherever. _We_ could do that in Los Santos."

"This is what you were working on earlier?"

"I know a couple girls we could get onboard, you could drive and make sure we were safe," she says. "If it takes off, we could get a black one and I could do a dominatrix service."

"You don't _know_ about being a dominatrix," I argue.

" _Every_ girl knows about bein' a dominatrix; boots, whip, handcuffs. Candlewax," she says. "You'd like it a lot more than me streetwalking."

"Well, yeah," I admit.

It's not a _bad_ idea. But Los Santos isn't Las Venturas. We don't have the abundance of clubs, casinos or other "sights" like they do out there. And, damn it, I _like_ my Albany Washington. I'm not thrilled about taking on monthly payments for an oversized vehicle that's largely useless. The Albany, I can drive it anywhere. It blends in, it's not too thirsty, it's versatile enough that I can just about control it over any sort of road surface without getting stuck. A stretch Patriot? That's just _all_ big, _all_ the time.

"So you'll think about it," she asks, doing the girly voice again.

"I'll _think_ about it," I promise.

She smiles. "Okay. So, how much did you burn through tonight?"

I run a quick tot up in my head. Sat for three hours watching 15 minute performances at $20 a time, plus the drinks and the payment for Gray's dancer... "Around $300," I choke.

" _Jesus_ , Pawel" she curses. "I bet you didn't even talk to Leon either?"

I shake my head and look away. She sighs heavily. "Well, I _still_ got enough for our rent," she says. Which means she's done more than three again, which doesn't make me very happy. But it also means she doesn't have to go out again tomorrow night.

That _does_ make me happy.

I set the alarm for noon and force myself to get out of bed at two minutes past. The sun is overbearingly bright at this time of day and Cinnamon and I usually go out of our way to avoid it, but I need to pay a visit to my current client and they tend to keep regular hours like a lot of stiffs in this town. This one's a lot less dead end than most of those guys though.

I head into the Mission Row station and ask the Desk Sergeant for Captain Jones. He asks me my name and picks up the phone.

Suddenly, from behind me, there's an angry "hey, you!"

I turn around and there's Fingers striding towards me, his buddy from the Unicorn trailing uncertainly a couple of steps behind. Fingers has unholstered his weapon with his left hand and is now aiming it at me, supporting it with the cast on his right. "Hands on your head and get on your knees, a$$hole," he shouts.

Civilians are dropping towards the ground in fear and officers reach hesitantly for their own holstered weapons as I stand there holding eye contact with Fingers, unmoving. He's about to say something else when Captain Jones shouts across the lobby "put your gun _away_ Detective Lewis. This is a police station, damn it!"

"Sir," Fingers starts to argue.

" _Now_ , Lewis! Before you force me to call you _Officer_!"

Fingers glares at me as he holsters his weapon, face turning red. I blow him a kiss and turn my attention to the Captain.

"You, _my office_ ," he yells at me. I walk towards him and he smacks the back of my head when I reach him, then leads me through the station.

"The hell are you _doing_ here, Verzynski," he demands when we're alone and shut into his office. "I thought I made it clear to you that this needs to be _discreet_?"

Meet my client, Captain A. P. Jones of Mission Row. He's standing for election next year onto the City Council. Fancies a shot at being Mayor of Los Santos.

"Who're the boy scouts," I ask, referring to Fingers and his partner.

"Never you mind about them," he snaps.

"Okay, well, I need some intel on Harvey," I say. "Who he hung out with, who he was screwing, what cases he worked on."

Jones glares at me, then produces a couple of shot glasses and a bottle of Scotch from a desk drawer, fills them both and hands me one. I don't usually touch whiskey but I get the impression that won't fly with the Captain.

"He worked for Lieutenant Two Raymond Gray on homicide, who by the way hasn't reported in for work this morning which is why Lewis and Fletcher out there have their panties in a bunch," Jones tells me.

I pick up the Scotch and take a sip. Yuck, how do old cops drink this filth? Setting the glass gently back on Jones' desk I ask "is that unusual, for Gray to go off the radar?"

"Since that day in 2008, very," he says. "He used to think he was untouchable. Rolled in when he wanted, used department resources for anything. I let it go because he got results."

"And now?"

"Model cop. Gets in for eight, leaves at six. He's had to replace his crew ever since," Jones says. "A few of 'em retired, I had most of the rest transferred out, one by one, until he only had a couple left, then started replacing them with a new team, building the Homicide department back up. Despite that, I _still_ don't trust _any_ of 'em."

"How many's he got?"

"Six now. You've met Lewis and Fletcher. Then he's got Akhtar, McArthur, Mufandaidza and Chandler, although he's off sick cos someone shot him in the foot. Back in 08, he had Harvey and Ericsson, Simpson and Malone, Ramirez and Singh and Collins and Mohammed."

"You say you had _most_ of them transferred?"

"All except for Harvey and Ericsson."

I take another sip of the Scotch because it seems polite and because he's already drained his and refilled the glass. "Okay, so I know Harvey bounced, what about Ericsson?"

"Disappeared," says Jones and downs his second shot.

"What do you mean? There was no press," I argue.

"Damn straight there wasn't," says Jones. "About three weeks before the armored truck heist, Ericsson comes to me with a paper file telling me it's evidence his colleagues are corrupt."

I sit up in surprise. "He snitched?"

Damn it, I thought those guys were tight.

"What did you do?"

"I told him never to bring that sh*t in my office again," Jones says firmly. "Of course, I'm not completely naïve. I knew Gray had his fat fingers in more than a few pies. But he got _results_. He was a good guy to have behind you when _you_ wanna go places."

"So you buried it."

"Don't sound so sanctimonious," he snaps.

I spread my arms to show I mean no offense. "So then what happened?"

"Bombs go off all around Los Santos and an armored truck goes missing," he says.

"Harvey was named as the culprit right from when the news first broke. How'd that happen?"

"Some fed came into my office. He told me one of my guys had bought him some intel about his partner and that he'd gone into protection. Told me Harvey had been planning the hit for weeks and that none of the other guys were involved."

"So, like you said, all neat and tidy," I say and force down the last of my Scotch. He holds up the bottle offering a refill. I shake my head. "Except, a week or so later, you come down to the La Mesa precinct and ask _my_ Captain which of his guys is in the pocket of Martin Madrazo."

"Yeah," Jones says quietly. "In those first few weeks I tried to do a little bit of tree-shaking. See what fell out."

"Why did you stop?"

"Harvey's trail went cold, Gray's phone stopped being a hotline of untraceable calls and he started keeping his nose clean."

"So the official line became convenient again. Like you say, no overturned convictions, no bad press, no liberals poking their noses in."

Jones is still irked by my comment, but simply curls his lip and grunts "something like that."

"Okay," I say and lean forward to rub my temples while my brain tries to process. "You got a name of this fed?"

"What do I look like, a rolodex?"

"But nobody's heard anything from Ericsson or Harvey since the heist, right?"

"Nothing beyond what I told you. Ericsson's in witness protection. Harvey drops off the radar until a couple of nights ago when he walks back through LSX and steals a car."

"Odd behaviour for a millionaire," I point out.

"Or maybe he can't launder the money to be able to spend it," Jones counters.

"Either of them have a wife? Girlfriend?"

"Harvey, nah, he _had_ himself a fiancée who was pregnant with his kid but he hit the bottle hard after she miscarried. Broke 'em up. Ruined him. Ericsson, he was a handsome b*st*rd. Never heard anything about who he was banging but he probably had a string of 'em. You'd need to ask around, if you can find any of the old crew."

"Whaddya mean, _if_ I can find 'em," I ask.

"I know where I _sent_ 'em," Jones explains. "I _don't_ know if they _stayed_ there."

At 13:46 I'm walking back down the steps to my car. In the old days I'd have had a box full of stuff, but now it's all on a USB thumbstick and it's encrypted so I can only use it with an email Jones is gonna send me later. I've had to sign my name on a butt load of paperwork to be allowed to carry the stick out of the station, but being as I'm now officially investigating for Jones, I'm charging daily expenses. I wanted $150, he wanted $50 so we compromised at $75.

I find Fingers – Lewis – sitting on my hood, with Fletcher lurking nearby. "Nice chat," Lewis asks me. I like his confrontational tone. I've been _wanting_ to have a go at his other hand.

"Very positive talk with your Captain," I say. "He thinks he can really save the taxpayer by cutting out his dead weight and replace the _whole_ Homicide unit with me."

Lewis stands up and gets into my personal space. Fletcher puts a hand between us. "Come on, Lewis, he ain't worth it," he says.

"What did you do with the Lieutenant," Lewis demands through gritted teeth, ignoring his partner.

I hold his eye. "I had nothing to do with your _filthy_ boss' disappearance."

" _You_ were at the club last night. I pulled the CCTV. It was you that arranged the distraction..."  
"Yeah, I was there and I saw you boys head out and leave your boss without a babysitter, but when I find him for you, I'll be sure to let him know you're worried." Lewis' jaw tightens. Fletcher insists "Lewis!"

He holds my eye, and I his, for a few seconds more. Then he spits on the ground, just missing my shoe, and barges past me. Fletcher gives me a look of disgust and follows.

When they've gone I realise they've slashed my tyres. Spick little f***er, next time I see Lewis, he needn't worry about his other hand; I'm gonna break _both_ his f*****g _arms_.

I put a call in to Bradshaw's Towing Company, but I have to leave a message on his voicemail. I'll give it a half hour and then I'm gonna take some tyres off the patrol cars. There's a coffee shop nearby. Actually, there's a bunch of 'em, but one in particular still has desktop computers you can rent by the hour so I go in there and get a super-triple espresso while I start delving into the contents of the USB stick.  
There's a lot of content and maybe it's because I'm still riled by the confrontation with Lewis and Fletcher, but it doesn't appear to make any sense at all, just a lot of scribbled mumbo jumbo. I start to wonder if Harvey hasn't invented his own coded form of shorthand, if he has it might take me the rest of the year to work out what it all means.  
My espresso's gone and somebody's hovering behind me trying to hound me off the machine, so my time must be up. Still no sign of a tow truck, so I go out and start wondering which car belongs to Lewis. It's only then that I've calmed down enough to wonder what the distraction he was talking about was, and remember how he'd urged Fletcher out of the bar while Gray was still indisposed with his grubby paws all over the dancer.

Jones told me that Harvey had hit the bottle and now that I think about it, he does have the look of an alcoholic about him. I've got his old address on Sustancia Road. It's unlikely he'll go back there, but I'm driving over to check out any liquor stores in the area while idly pondering whether the alloy wheels the Albany's now wearing add anything to its value.  
More seriously, I'm thinking about Harvey's partner, Josef 'Joey' Ericsson. The evidence he presented to Jones was before I met Lieutenant Gray and his guys, but then he went to some fed? The last thing I need is to be in a file somewhere. I already lost my job on the LSPD. I can't afford to lose anything else.  
Before heading out towards East LS, there's an old electronics shack just off Legion Square where I pick up a police scanner. Technically I shouldn't have it, but I'm getting paid expenses now so what the hell? Mostly it's just the normal chatter, but there is an APB put out for a Benefactor sedan that's been reported stolen by one Harlan Schultz. The name rings a vague bell, some lawyer I might have had a run-in with in court one time. But it gets my attention when the despatcher gives the car's last tracker reading; approximately 3:10am, heading North from the Vanilla Unicorn. I get plenty of angry honks from traffic as I change direction with the e-brake.

I might be barking up the wrong tree but I doubt it. The timing and the vicinity of the stolen car, plus Flewis and Letcher's reactions this morning, all point towards the Lieutenant having been grabbed. Why, and where would Harvey have gone, if it was indeed him, are the two questions now taking precedence in my mind.  
From all accounts, Harvey's meeting with Gray the other night didn't appear to go well, and if his appearance is any indication of his current financial position then either Harvey doesn't have the money he's been accused of having or, like Jones pointed out, he's incapable of spending it. But if the latter case is correct, then why would Harvey bother coming back to Los Santos? It'd be just a matter of time before he's arrested, and Gray and his boys aren't the _only_ authorities looking for him.  
So he must be looking to clear his name. Like Jones suspected, like _I_ suspected right from the start, Gray knows more about this than he's letting on. That suggests Harvey would want to get him somewhere out of the way to interrogate him. I'm guessing Sandy Shores, but now I'm passing the RON Alternates Wind Farm as I head North on the Senora Freeway.  
What if…?

There's no car but there's a lot of tracks. It rained hard Tuesday night so it seems most likely they've been put down since then. On top of that, on the ground all around are several large holes; craters blown out of the dirt by shots fired out of a high-velocity long-range rifle. Close examination turns up no signs of any bullet fragments; somebody's cleaned up the scene. And, now that I'm paying attention to the dirt, there's a large area that looks like it's been dug up. I keep a small trowel and latex gloves in the trunk of the Albany. Old habit. When I get back with them and dig, I find small traces of what looks like blood. I look around for likely vantage points of a sniper of which there are several, and briefly consider dropping to the ground just in case there's some ambush waiting, but the shooter, and the vehicles are all long gone. If not, I'd probably have been shot long before I started digging.  
Aside from car's tracks, there are several sets of motorcycle tracks and some larger, heavier tracks that might belong to a van. Could one of the biker gangs around Los Santos somehow be involved? Is this even be related to Harvey or Gray _at all_ , or just an execution of the latest undercover cop to be sent in with The Lost MC?  
Harvey doesn't strike me as a biker. Then again, someone managed to remote hack the tracker on Schultz's car so maybe Harvey's got some help?  
Jesus, too much 'what if'. I'm going to need to decipher the ramblings in his notes and try to identify any of his CI's that might know their way around motorcycles or computer systems. That somehow seems to be a better use of my time than hunting the Senora desert on the off-chance of finding a missing car that might not even have anything to do with my case, but I take plenty of photos on my cellphone while I'm there because, you never know, there _might_ be something to it.

On the way back, I exit the Senora Freeway onto the Elysian Fields Freeway and ride that to East Los Santos. There's only one store in the area, Rob's Liquor. Rob recognises Harvey from my old photo but says he wasn't ever really a regular and hasn't been in for a long time, and he's not going to let me see his CCTV without a warrant.

I pick up takeout dinner from a Korean place we like in Little Seoul on my way home later, and a bottle of red wine that's on offer at the liquor store nearby for me and Cinnamon. At 16:33 she joins me in the kitchen in her robe and I open the wine.  
"What's the occasion," she asks me.  
"Captain Jones has agreed to pay me $75 a day expenses," I say.  
She washes a glass and fills it. "How long's he willing to let you drag out the case," she says. "Can we take tomorrow off?"  
"I don't know. What would we do if we did?"  
She shrugs. "I don't know. I thought maybe go to the beach, but we'd both be miserable after a half hour."  
That makes both of us laugh. I can't remember when we last did that. We eat and share the wine, and then both of us go to bed. Together.

It's the closest evening we've shared together in months and we're curled up dozing in post-coital bliss when my cell rings.  
I answer it and Captain Jones ruins our night.  
"Exactly how f*****g useless are you," he demands.  
"Alright, you better watch who you're-," I start.  
"Harvey was _in my station_ ," he screams, livid.  
I bolt up in bed. "Are you f******g _serious_?" _When_?"  
"Ten minutes ago. I got a call because someone hacked one of my computers. I'm looking at the CCTV and guess who I'm looking at?"  
I squeeze the lock button on the side of the phone to hang up on him so hard I feel the plastic stress and I spring out of bed to hurriedly dress. Cinnamon says nothing as I hurry for the door to the garage and get into the Albany. The tyres spin on the garage floor before they bite and the car surges away.  
I have no idea where I'm going so I crank up the volume on the scanner. Call Jones back, no longer bothered if he knows I'm listening in to the cop chatter. "How the hell did he manage to walk in without anybody grabbing him," I demand.  
"He came in dressed as an officer, him and a woman. They pulled up out front in a god damn cruiser."  
"Did you get the number?"  
"Yeah, 199054. We're trying to get it on tracker but it's being blocked."  
Interesting. Just like the Benefactor.  
"What was its last call out," I ask.  
"Violent incident at Posonby's Clothing Store on Portola Drive."

"Anybody else know about this?"

"I'm keeping it between us for now, but when Rockford Hills starts missing their guys, this is gonna blow up in our faces. If _that_ happens, _you_ are _finished_!"  
I hang up on him again. I'm not far from the store and I bring the car skidding to a halt at a metred parking bay near the door a couple minutes later. Barge through the front door and declare loudly "Ma'am, I'm investigating the abduction of a couple of cops outside your premises and I'm gonna need to see your CCTV, _now_."  
Don't give the woman on the counter a chance to argue as I force my way through a door beyond the changing rooms marked "Staff Only" so she's forced to run after me and guide me where I need to go.  
The cameras don't give me much to go on; they're focused on the door, not the street, but I can see the officer's feet as they stop outside the store to talk to someone. One of them goes down and the other one stands stunned for a second, allowing their assailant to drop him too. Then both of them are dragged off by what looks like a man and a woman, also in officer's uniforms. They're wearing hats, so neither of the cameras got their faces, or the direction the car went.  
 _F***_!  
"Thanks ma'am, you've been a big help," I say and hurry back the way I came while her brain is still trying to catch up. I get back into the Albany and J-turn it back down Portola; thankfully traffic's light at this time of night so nobody protests too much, and I punch it without caution past the Rockford Hills precinct on my way back towards Mission Row.

News comes over the scanner of a disturbance in Grove Street; complaints of two naked white guys handcuffed together. That's a bad neighbourhood to pull that stunt in; Ballas' gang territory. Could they be the two cops? If it is, they won't survive long. I floor it in that direction.

It's already a circus on Grove Street. Angry residents are out of their homes, many just disgusted by the disgraceful and disrespectful display in the middle of their street. These people already have enough on their plate when they're trying to raise families or survive amidst the constant chaos the gangbangers amongst them keep stirring. Others are shouting racist and homophobic abuse at the two white cops that are trapped in the middle of a circle of people. Several homes have aimed their security lights at the pair. People are throwing things. And the Ballas are coming out to play. Every few seconds one of 'em crosses the circle, punches one of the guys and disappears back into the rabble on the other side.

A couple of patrol cars are already at the edge of the throng of people, but won't dare get out of their cars or attempt to go any further in without backup.  
I don't lift off the throttle, instead I keep my foot planted on the gas and my hand pounding on the horn. People part in front of me but start raining angry punches on the Albany's bodywork instead, but then I'm in the middle of the circle and I e-brake the car around alongside the two bloodied guys. They don't need to be told to get in and then I lock the doors and punch it again, don't stop until we're back out of the throng of people. Somebody throws something and the rear windshield shatters, and then I see two big cars, a Gallivanter and something else, start pursuing us.  
Lazily, the two patrol cars move away to try and escort us, but the Ballas have already got the run on them.

It's been too long since I've done this, and the Albany's not really cut out for it, but I'm punching it up towards the gas station and then swinging right onto Strawberry, aiming back up towards Pillbox Hill.

Bullets hit the trunk and the C-pillar making the two cops cry out in terror. So much for $2000 trade-in.  
I reach over and open the glovebox. So I'm no longer licensed to carry the gun or conceal it as a private investigator, but I have a licensed firearm for self-defence. I think this qualifies.

The Gallivanter hits the rear quarter, attempting to pull a pit manoeuvre on me. I see it coming, let it happen, steer into the turn with the e-brake engaged so that the car does a complete 180 across the front of the Gallivanter and open up with the nine millimetre semi-automatic pistol towards the windshield. I'd rather have a .357 right now but at least I can hold it steady while popping off shots in quick succession. When I floor the gas again, the Gallivanter doesn't follow.

I still need to take care of the other SUV with the two passengers both firing at me with sub-machine guns, causing yet more damage to the Albany. Or not; the two cop cars have caught up and now block off the road after I pass. Unfortunately the SUV driver doesn't lift and ploughs through them, spinning them out of its way in a shower of broken glass, plastic and metal debris. The cops try and fire at it but it's bearing down on my Albany again, and only one of the shooters is diverting his attention back at the officers.

The Albany's overdue a service and I'm down on power so there's no way I can outrun the SUV. I doubt I can out-manoeuvre it either, but I pull another 180 and hammer it back towards the two disabled cop vehicles. I'm hoping they can get a good shot at it this time, or at least slow it down enough for me to lose it.

The car gets peppered with bullets as I whizz past the SUV and one of the cops cries out. I take a quick glance over my shoulder and see that my interior's now ruined as well. The cops see me coming back. They cotton on. The Albany roars between their cars and they open fire at the pursuing SUV. One of 'em's got his shotgun free. The SUV passes between them but veers hard left and flips over onto its roof, but then the cops are peppered with further automatic fire and drop down. Four motorcycles then come into view weaving around the wreck of the SUV towards us. F***!

"Get us to Rockford Hills precinct," one of the cops screams at me, hands bloodied from putting pressure on his buddy's wound. But I'm not going there. For one, I don't think the Albany will make it before we're all killed, and for another, I'm still desperate to keep this off the airwaves. We're under the Olympic Freeway, going North. I don't slow down for the Adam's Apple Boulevard intersection and traffic slews and honks all around us.

Nearly there; back to Elgin Avenue, and the Mission Row precinct. Just need to cross Vespucci Boulevard.

That's when my luck runs out and we get sideswiped by a box truck.


	10. Chapter 10

Part 10 : Pawel Verzynski

The truck hits on the passenger side. The two cops scream, one in agony cos he's already bleeding out of a trio of bullet wounds down his leg, the other in pure terror.

Glass shatters and I'm thrown sideways. My head cracks the window but then I'm being thrown the other direction because the car's being spun around by the force of the impact and finally my head hits the airbag.

When the ringing in my head subsides, I feel a pain in my temple and see the passenger side rearview mirror lying between my feet in the driver's footwell.

I'm vaguely aware of the truck driver getting out. The spit of automatic fire and his body hitting the asphalt snaps me to my senses and I drop to the left, ignoring the screaming from my neck and back and my fingers scrabble around the fragments of glass and bodywork.

I see a black guy in a purple shirt appear in the driver's door window just as my fingers find my semi-automatic; the colors of the Ballas. I don't wait to see what he's gonna do and put two in his head.

There's a shout then and more automatic fire but then I hear the boom of higher-calibre weaponry, and I realise with an adrenaline-spiking surge of elation that the cops from Mission Row are responding to the incident unfolding live right on their doorstep.

I kick my door open with my pistol aimed out and see cops rushing towards us, lower the gun quick. Automatic fire comes overhead from the other side of the wrecked car. I drop to the asphalt and force the rear door open, pull on the naked cop closest to me. He slides out and yells at me to help him with his friend, so I do and then the three of us are sat in the cover of the Albany. The cops are taking cover amongst abandoned cars ahead of us. I decide to give 'em a show of good faith, crawl towards the back end of my car, lean around and fire what's left of my clip at the attacking Ballas. One of the automatic SMG's falls silent, and the cops use the opportunity to lay down further covering fire as I grab the two naked guys. Propping the injured one between us, we hobble towards the officers and away from the gangbangers. The cops keep us covered and help us retreat back towards the station where further reinforcements are coming out with even heavier weapons and body armor. The remaining Ballas make their own retreat back to their bikes and I carry the two naked cops through the front door where Captain Jones stands in an armored vest, clutching a shotgun, barking out orders. He sees us and puts his deputy in charge of getting us to his office and patched up.

A few minutes later, a blonde girl in a white blouse that's about to get ruined joins us and sets to work pulling shrapnel out of the injured cop's leg.

The deputy gets the two cops uncuffed and the one covered in his partner's blood comes up and puts his arms around me. "Thank you," he gargles through swollen lips and a broken nose. "We would've died there if you'd not come in for us."

We hear someone clearing their throat and separate, see the Captain in the doorway. He shuts us in and locks it behind him. He's angry, I can see it, and his first port of call is the Scotch in his desk drawer. He downs two shots and pours himself a third before he says anything.

"What precinct are you from? Rockford Hills?"

"Yes Sir. Get my Captain on the phone-"

Jones holds up his hand to silence the man. "This does _not_ leave the room," he insists.

" _What_ ," the cop demands.

"You two have gotten yourselves tangled into an undercover operation and my…" He looks at me, with some disgust might I add. " _Detective_ here has had to blow his cover to get you two to safety. I can't afford any more light being shed on what was _already_ a very sensitive investigation-"

" _Screw that_ man, you can't keep us-," the cop starts to argue.

"You're _lucky_ I can't afford to call up your Captain and let him know just how _incompetent_ you've _been_ tonight," Jones roars, cutting him off. "If it were up to me I'd be firing the _both_ of you. As it is, word of tonight's little f*** up _will not_ leave this room, and you will be released back with replacement uniforms, a new car and _no_ black mark on your records, you worthless little c*cks*cking sons of b*tches."

Jones is so angry I feel embarrassed just by association. But he's not even got started with me yet. "What part of discreet can you not get your lobotomised brain around," he yells.

"I wanted to catch the car-," I start to explain.

"The _car's_ likely been _torched_ under some flyover. What you _should_ be doing is working out who Harvey's got working with him and why he's stealing personnel files and the Bolingbroke Transit Schedule. Instead you start a god damn _freak show_ right on my front doorstep so before the sun comes up in the morning this place is gonna be crawlin' with f*****g _reporters_!"

I guess when you put it like that, saving the lives of two cops might not have been the best thing I could've done.

Jones railed for about a half hour while the blonde did a rough patch up job of the injured cop and saw to the worst of the mine and the other cop's injuries, then the three of us were transferred over to the hospital. Mel, somehow, didn't seem very happy to see me. The damage to my head was only superficial; a black eye and a large bruise from where the rearview mirror clouted me, a few cuts from the glass on the other side, and the onset of whiplash that I'm gonna suffer for later.

Worse is to come when I have to tell Cinnamon about the wrecked Albany, so after helping myself to some decent painkillers from the dispensary I check myself out. Well, I walk out the back door anyway. If I went via the front desk, they'd probably have insisted I go back to my ward, at least until they'd got the bill printed out.

Before that, though, I'd gone to see how the cops from last night were getting on. The blonde in Jones' office had done a good job of saving Bailey's leg and he was now sleeping like only a man doped up to the eyeballs on quality meds can. His partner Pearson was sitting in a vaguely comfortable chair by his bedside, and I could see he was running the previous night through his mind again.

"Hey," I greeted him. "Can we talk?"

"Sure," he sighed. He was talking a little easier since his nose had been re-set, but his face was still swollen.

"Apologies for the Captain," I began.

"He's right," Pearson sighed. "It was stupid to get ourselves blindsided like that. Funny thing is, when the b*tch clobbered Bailey, I just stood there. It was all just so surreal, y'know?"

"Can you remember what she looked like," I asked him gently. Normally I wouldn't like him talking about a woman in such a derogatory manner but given all that's happened to him, I let it slide that time.

"Uh, it was dark so I didn't see her so well. Brown hair, I guess. Mirror shades, even though it was night. That should've been the giveaway…"

"Nothing else?"

"No. The guy was-" he started.

"I know about the guy," I interrupted. "He's, uh, undercover."

"Makes sense," Pearson said. "He was as shocked as I was."

Really? Who the hell has Harvey gotten himself mixed up with?

"Puttin' a cop uniform on must've been a mindf***," Pearson continued.

For Harvey? Yeah, it must have been…

I thanked Pearson and then I left.

I half-heartedly wonder about 'borrowing' Lewis' car, but that's not going to help matters any at the moment and anyway, it might still not have any wheels on it.

I managed to convince Jones to let me have a copy of the CCTV that he's keeping close to his chest, so _technically_ I guess I'm still on the investigation, although I'm not sure if my expenses bill is going to be paid anymore. I doubt he'll comp me a car. I'mma have to pull somethin' outta my a$$, but I don't know what and so I walk home.

I open the door to our apartment and sneak in quietly. Our bedroom door is open. No sign of Cinnamon. She's not in the bathroom either. I turn on the coffee percolator, dig out my old laptop, plug in the charging cable and set it up on our table with the USB stick I got from Jones yesterday and the CCTV from Harvey's intrusion at the station last night. I find Cinnamon's notepad and start drawing up my timeline of Harvey's known or suspected movements since his return a few days ago. I'm fed up of always being a few steps behind.

I'd retrieved the police scanner from my car before Jones could have one of his boys look at the wreck and chastise me for having it and I set that up too, then open an Eyefind tab and click for the latest Weazel network news updates. Our shootout is, perhaps unsurprisingly, one of the top stories although it's being sold as a robbery gone wrong on the box truck.

The main news item relates to the theft of a classic car from the Port of Los Santos. It was apparently stolen right off the boat by a couple of well-armed gunmen. The naked cops at Grove Street is also a news item, but is being run as a minor, unrelated story. Jones must have some serious sway.

I wonder who the stolen car belonged to? It looks nice. Unfortunately the news doesn't say.

So, to my timeline. Harvey turns up Tuesday night. Steals a car and goes to see Lieutenant Gray. There's a couple of hours between those points though, so what was he doing in between?

After his fight with Gray and his boys, and shooting one of them in the foot, Madrazo picks him up. Around 24 hours later I suspect he grabs Gray, and then 18 hours later he's breaking into the station to steal... something... with a vicious woman.

I watch the CCTV. The pair of them seem calm enough walking in, but when Harvey sits down at the computer, the pair of them become nervous. I can't see her face because of her hat and the angle of the camera. Harvey doesn't appear to be doing any typing, so he must have plugged in a program that uploaded itself and downloaded whatever he wanted automatically. So, Harvey must know, or be in some sort of partnership with, a hacker. I can barely work the ancient laptop, I know nothing of cyber crime, but I need to see if I can catch up with any of Gray's old buddies so maybe one of the precincts will be able to help me out there?

How on Earth does any of this add up? Harvey comes back to Los Santos just to be involved in another heist? I can't see it. So either the hacker and/or the woman have something on him or they have something he wants and he's having to earn it.

But breaking into a police station, stealing a prison transit schedule and whatever else he got from the computer? He's in way over his head.

I remember the percolator and get up to wash a mug. Then I notice that there are half a dozen of them on the kitchen work surface bearing signs of having recently been used. Either Cinnamon's drank a lot of coffee this morning, or otherwise she's had company.

That's when my front door opens and in walks Martin Madrazo with five of his guys.

"Where's Cinnamon," I demand.

"Five years and _that's_ how you welcome me into your... dwelling," snarls Madrazo. "You say to me 'where's Cinnamon' instead of 'hello Martin, how nice to see you'?"

"It's _not_ nice to see you. _Where's Cinnamon_?"

Madrazo gives his guys a look, like why haven't you taken care of this already, and they flank me, force me down onto my sofa and hold me there. Madrazo picks our single framed photograph together up from the top of the TV. "Lovely woman, Cinnamon. Shame you're putting her to work Downtown. I could probably put her in a much _better_ position."

I try to force myself to my feet. Madrazo's guys hold me firm, one of them smirks.

"You _aren't_ being _polite_ , Pawel," Madrazo snaps at me.

I have to bite my tongue. Hold my breath until I can say something without screaming it. "I didn't think we were friends anymore after our last… meeting."

Madrazo comes and stands in front of me, still holding the photograph. "Well, now we have a _mutual_ friend. I think we should try to get along. For their sake."

 _Touch her and I'll kill you_ I want to say, but that would be stupid. Although, if he has, I will. But I need to put that aside while there's any hope of her being alive and do whatever it takes to keep her that way.

So I say "okay," like the pathetic little weakling he knows I am now.

"You might have heard," he starts. "I hope not, but you might, that I have a… liking for women."

I've heard. His poor wife puts up with his temper while he cheats on her constantly. Oh God, if he's done anything to Cinnamon…

"The Lost have set up a brothel at an abandoned motel in Grand Senora," he says, and I'm completely thrown off.

"What?"

He looks at me, sets the photograph back on the TV. "We have our own operations, and I don't like to think how this one is being run," he says. "If it's not up to standards, the cops will come down on everyone. Can you go down there and take out the bikers. Bring the girl they're using to me, and we will see she's looked after."

"You want me to go and f*** over a whole bunch of Lost MC a$$holes on their own turf?"

"Call it a favor for a friend," Madrazo says. One of his boys chuckles, until Madrazo throws him a stern look.

"They're gonna have some firepower. At least SMG's…"

Madrazo turns back to the still-open door and yells "Esteban."

The guy that comes in is big by Mexican standards, tall as me and well-built. He's carrying a big crate which he puts down on my living room floor and breaks open with his bare hands. Two carbine rifles are inside along with a dozen or so spare clips, full metal. "Esteban will go with you. He'll have your back but you're running the show. Bring the girl, Anna, to my house. You remember the address?"

"Yeah," I say, eying the weapons. "Does Esteban have a ride? My car got wrecked this morning."

Esteban has a ride, and doesn't speak much English. I don't speak much Spanish either, so we don't say very much to each other on the ride out in his V10 Bobcat XL pick-up truck. I managed to convince him to stop off at the Ammu-Nation in Little Seoul so I could buy some more rounds for my semi-automatic that I depleted in my fight with the Ballas, and I've got it strapped in my shoulder-holster that I used to wear when I was licensed to carry it concealed.

It's late afternoon, but the sun overhead is still overbearingly hot. I'd prefer to wait for dusk, but Madrazo wants to catch The Lost while they're off-guard and business will be slower. We get off the freeway and turn right at the top of the off-ramp, heading into the sticks of Sandy Shores.

Esteban yammers something but I don't catch any of it. I'm too busy thinking that I'm gonna have to get this over quick. The Lost are well-armed and vicious, and they've got outposts all over Blaine County. They invaded from the East a couple years back and have been causing trouble on the West coast ever since.

They're running the brothel out of a dilapidated motel. It's still standing, but only just. Parts of it have collapsed and it would be subject to multiple building code violations if any inspector ever dared come near the place

A Lost MC Enforcer and two Prospects stand sweating in the sun out front. We're not stopping, we roll on by, taking the road running West, past the South side of the old motel. They watch us like hawks and the Enforcer has one of the Prospects follow us around as pass, so we try not to be too obvious in paying the place any attention but I'm watching in the rearview trying to note the layout as far as I can see it. There's a wall around the motel perimeter that's about waist-high, shrubs, an outbuilding that's as derelict as the motel itself, and what looks like a large fuel tank all outside.

We keep on going deeper into Sandy Shores until we arrive at an old garage on an intersection that allows us to turn North, and then back East, coming back to the motel on its Northern side. I can already see that's where I wanna get inside; there's a piece of corrugated metal acting as makeshift fence, and an old rotted bus with no wheels sat there, as well as large shrubs and weeds I can conceal myself in.

I point it out to Esteban and he slows the truck down. I reach through the rear window and grab one of the carbines, hook the strap over my left shoulder so that the gun rests under my right armpit. Then I grab four spare clips, gently open the door and gingerly drop myself out of the truck. He picks up speed slightly as soon as I'm down and I hurry over to take cover behind the fence.

I see no movement and hear no noise, other than the Bobcat's receding engine note so I risk sidling around the fence to take cover behind the corpse of the old bus. Still nothing. Moving as quiet and as low as I can, I hurry over to the staircase, aim the carbine up and ascend, delicately, trying my utmost not to make a sound.

I put my back to the Northern-facing wall when I reach the top and edge my way to the end so that I'm on the North-Eastern corner of the veranda. I can hear muffled noises of guys talking from somewhere beyond and I know that down below the Enforcer and his Prospects are still keeping an eye out. As I'm waiting there, I notice one of the Prospects completing a loop around the perimeter, and I duck down in case he should look up.

I edge my way towards the rear of the motel, the Western side, past the staircase I came up and peek round the corner. It hurts like hell with the whiplash setting into my neck, but I can't see anybody.

The first room has no door. I crouch alongside the opening and peer stiffly round over the sights on the carbine. I see the shadows of a couple of guys from the Eastern veranda through the opposite doorway, but nobody's inside the room, so I quietly swing myself across to the opposite side of the open frame and continue along the Western side.

The next four doors are closed and sealed tight, and then I come to a gap for a central staircase. I stop and listen, risk peering out, but I can't see anyone on the stairs. There's sounds of a conversation coming from the veranda at the front. Sounds like just two guys.

Quietly I cross the gap and find the doorway to the next room wide open, the door itself lying, broken, inside the room. I'm about to check it when I hear a biker viciously saying "breakfast time, b*tch."

There's a feminine cry. That must be her. I lean around the door with the carbine. This suite's clear, but there's a great big hole in the wall leading through to the suite next door, and another hole on the opposite wall opening into a third suite.

I dart in and take cover to the left of the first hole, listening, and I hear some more voices, guys encouraging the one I'd heard forcing himself on the woman. I hear the slide of a semi-automatic pistol being pulled, and muffled but futile protests and the guy says "open wide."

Jesus, _really_? I think about what if someone did that to Cinnamon? Forced her to… to do that, with a gun to her head. What if Madrazo, or someone, is doing that to her right now?

My blood boils. I have to take a slow, quiet, deep breath, exhale gently. This is not a good time to get how I can get.

"Don't need to be _that_ wide," another biker teases, earning an angry "shut up," from Gunpoint Bl*wj*b guy, and chuckles from the rest.

Sounds like four of 'em. At least two on the front veranda makes six, plus the three I'd seen downstairs when Esteban and I had cruised by.

"My turn next," another guy says, Clearly I've caught them early in their day, still half-asleep and off-guard, right according to Madrazo's plan. Good.

I hear footfalls as Me Next approaches and I tense up waiting for the inevitable discovery, but the steps stop and he says "remember to keep your teeth off it."

Hang on, what, he's going to _watch_? Eww… More footfalls. Sounds like they're _all_ coming for the show.

"Hope you're hungry," Comedy Biker says.

"Will you boys _f*** off_ ," Gunpoint Bl*wj*b growls.

"Awww… what's wrong, performance anxiety," Comedy Biker teases.

"Shouldn't you be checking the perimeter or something," Gunpoint demands.

There's grumbling but I hear footsteps as the guys spread out. I let the rifle come to rest under my right armpit. I've got my back to the wall with the hole on my left; to my right, there's a bathroom jutting out which I now quickly slip into.

A few seconds later I hear someone walking past and as I peer around the bathroom wall I see him heading out of the open doorway I'd come in through.

Once he's disappeared from sight, I sneak out of the bathroom and through the hole into the second suite, take cover by the hole in the wall that leads into the third; nobody in there now but Gunpoint Bl*wj*b.

I edge around the wall as quiet as I can until I'm right behind him, and as quick as I can I grab his head to snap his neck. Then with my right hand I put a finger to my lips to urge the poor woman, who looks very freaked out, to stay quiet. She's cowering away, pressed up tight into the corner of the bathroom. Even in this light I can see she's got bruises on her… well, everything.

Once I've gently guided the body to the ground I whisper to her "are you Anna?"

"What? Nn… yeah. Yeah. Madrazo sent you?"

"Yeah," I say. "I'm Pawel, I'm gonna get you out-"

I stop because she flinched at my name. There's clearly a lot more to this than Madrazo's letting on, but I can't worry about that right this second, I need to get the two of us out of here.

I unholster my semi-automatic. "Do you know how to use one of these," I ask. She shakes her head. "Okay. Just stay low and do what I say. Keep an eye on our six and shout if you see anyone coming up behind us, okay? Are there any other girls working here?"

She shakes her head. "No, it's… it's just me," she says. She's starting to shake, so I put a hand on her shoulder, although she pulls away.

"It's gonna be okay," I whisper to her. "Just be ready to move when I say so. You ready?"

She nods. I pull Gunpoint Bl*wj*b's leather vest off his corpse and slip it on, then get up and lean around to check out the bathroom door. The third suite's clear apart from the sleeping bags laid out on the floor, but I can hear more voices now from the front veranda. There's another missing door at the back of the third suite so I hurry over towards it.

The veranda to the right is blocked; the building has fallen in and the path is blocked by a huge piece of the collapsed roof, so I can't go back the way I came. I can't see anyone out to the left so I look back and beckon for the girl to follow. She comes in stocking-feet, carrying her high heels with her. Good thinking.

We're making our way along the back wall then there's a cry of alarm from behind us; somebody's found the body. The next door along is locked, but the one after is open. I swiftly check the room is clear with the semi-automatic gripped in front of me and then pull her in behind me, cross the room to take cover alongside the open door opposite. A guy runs past, heading towards where I left Gunpoint Bl*wj*b dead. I lean out; everyone's attention is on the suite we'd come from, and on making sure we're not going to the North stairway. I look right and it's clear so I pull the woman around behind me as we run towards the South corner. Just in time, because we've just come out of the front door of the room when two guys thunder in through the back. We're making our way across the veranda on the front now, going South, but as I round the corner to towards the South side staircase I come face to face with one of the Prospects that's ran up to join the search.

He already knows I ain't who the name patch on the leather vest says I am, so I punch him hard in the face, force him into the wall and grab his sub-machinegun gun from him. Then, using him as a human shield with the gun to his head, I make for the staircase.

The Enforcer sees us coming and fires at us with a large calibre revolver. No hesitation, kills the Prospect straight out. I try to move out of the way, but it happens too fast. The bullet tears through the Prospect and into my left shoulder, and I scream in agony and drop onto my a$$. The stairs give me a serious poke in my spine that's going to slow me down, too.

The rest of 'em know where we are now and my attempt at a disguise is rendered pretty much useless. I blast at the Enforcer with the dead Prospect's sub-machine gun and the second Prospect comes running towards us with his weapon drawn. Automatic rifle fire takes him out from behind; in the chaos, Esteban has pulled up out front of the motel and is standing out of the open driver's door, leaning over the roof with his carbine. He lays down some covering fire for us as I clamber to my feet and then I see him swap the rifle for a bright orange flare fun which he fires into the sky before dropping back into the Bobcat and putting it in drive to come pick us up.

I grab the woman's arm and force her down the rest of the stairs, towards the perimeter wall I'd noticed when we'd driven past earlier and the both of us scramble over it and drop into a crouch on the other side.

I reach up over the wall and fire the SMG I'd got from the Prospect at the stairway just as the guys on the veranda reach the top of it and they all fall back into cover. I keep firing until the gun clicks empty and then throw it away and bring up the carbine.

The truck comes up alongside and Esteban's already pushed the passenger door open. I shove the woman in and he floors it.

Leaving me behind.

In the distance I can already hear the rumble of motorcycle engines. The Lost MC have either called backup, or another outpost has heard the gunfire. Hope Esteban's counted on that.

I realise that engines are approaching from behind me now, too, and I stumble my way backwards, hoping to make it to the outbuilding before I'm caught in the open.

The engines I hear aren't bikes; it's half a dozen or so SUV's, out of which pour well-dressed and heavily armed Mexicans; Madrazo's guys, come to finish what we started once they knew we had the woman clear. They start blasting at the remaining Lost MC guys inside the motel.

I reach the outbuilding and drop inside, covered by the remains of it and the shadows, and watch the following gunfight. It's a very one-sided affair. The Mexicans sweep in from all sides and make short work of the survivors, darting in and out of suites and taking care of anyone they find hiding or waking up or even just laid there too stoned in their sleeping bags to be aware of what's happening. Barely two minutes pass before they're all dashing back down to their SUV's and the motel begins to blaze. A trio of motorcycles comes past me from the West, bearing down on the motel. The Mexicans open fire, tearing them to pieces before the bikes have even come to a stop.

The fire quickly takes hold of the motel and the whole thing is alight when Madrazo's fleet pulls out and roars past me, ignoring me as I come out of my hiding place to try and flag down a ride.

I start walking the way they went. A second or two later I hear more motorcycles; _lots_ of motorcyles. An entire battalion of The Lost MC, and it's getting louder. It's coming from all sides; the outposts all over Blaine County have been alerted by either the fire or maybe even Esteban's flare.

Oh no...

I quicken my pace. It's too far for me to run the whole way but up ahead I can see the Mexicans' screech their vehicles to a halt to try and mount a fight back as the Lost cut them off from the West, but then more bikes swarm past me coming from the East too. Pillion passengers on their bikes are already firing upon them with sub-machineguns. The Mexicans have superior weapons but half of them are slaughtered inside their vehicles before they get a chance to use them.

Oh f*ck, no...

I scramble into the weeds pushing up out of the desert soil for some cover and aim my carbine at the rearmost of the bikes. The weapon is more powerful than any I've fired before and my left shoulder is useless and screaming at me in pain, joining the cacophony of pain from my whiplash, so I struggle holding it steady but I manage to get a good hit on the front tire of the first bike which sends the rider and the pillion flying over the handlebars as it tips up. Most of the remaining bikes stop to join in the assault on the Mexicans but a couple break off to come straight towards me. I sacrifice the rest of my second cartridge to putting down the first bike, then switch to the semi-automatic and fire desperately at the other. The rider drops back and the bike falls to the ground just as the pistol clicks empty.

The pillion passenger is struggling out from underneath the bike and the corpse of the rider as I quickly approach. I reload my semi-automatic as I run in and fire three rounds at him until he stops moving, then holster it again to reload the carbine while I hurry towards the back of the rearmost SUV, where a couple of Mexicans are still putting up a fight. They're good too; although still heavily outnumbered, they've cut through most of the flanking Lost MC riders. I mop up any survivors as I come in from behind, but the SUV's rear window shatters and one of Madrazo's guys drops dead just as I reach it to take cover. The one remaining Mexi takes a glance over at me, spots the vest and before he can heed my protest, hits me with the butt of his rifle.

I've got a fresh pain in my head as the blackness subsides. I can hear sirens in the distance. That snaps me awake. I discover that I've been bundled into the trunk of the rearmost SUV, but the guy that had hit me is leaning against it, dead. Obviously he'd realised his mistake and tried to get me into safety while I was unconscious.

I can hear motorbike engines in the distance and as I get up and peer around the SUV I come face to face with a horror scene from a war zone. The Mexicans are dead, or near-dead and beyond saving, but they put up a good fight because there's plenty of dead Lost MC thugs strewn across the road and the plains either side too.

The vehicles are bullet-riddled, blood splattered and even if I could get one started, I wouldn't want to drive it. The bikers I'd put down are still where I left them, underneath their fallen machines. I head towards the closest one and pick it up off the ground. I'm not really a fan of ape hanger handlebars but the bike comes to life when I kickstart it and I need to move, _now_.

I've still got the carbine and two clips for it, and I'm still wearing Gunpoint Bl*wj*b's vest, which would be why the Mexican knocked me out. I grab the sub-machinegun from one of the dead bikers, and the clip out of the other's gun and ease the hog through the carnage to the highway beyond. Once I'm clear of the battle area I gun it.

A few minutes further along the highway, Esteban's Bobcat lies on it's roof. I put the kickstand down and hurry over to investigate. Esteban is dead. No sign of the woman. I hurry back to the bike as whiplash, blood loss and terror make my head swim and my breathing labored.

The road brings me to an intersection, a cheap motel to the left and an old gas station to the right. There's a couple of bikes parked out front of the latter, a pair of Enforcers standing guard.

"Did you get lost," one of them calls to me jokingly.

"Forever lost," I admit and the two guys cheer, which means I've probably inadvertently used one of their catchphrases.

Oh yeah... The Lost MC.

"Everyone else inside," I ask.

"'Everyone else' has split. It's just Smithy and Conner inside, trying to find out why the Mexis were willing to make such a mess just for that b*tch."

All I need to hear.

This _is_ a good time to get how I can get.

"You got any smokes? All mine went up in the motel," I say, approaching them.

"Yeah," says one and reaches behind for his back pocket. I punch the other one hard in the face with my good hand, then headbutt the guy while he's still got his hand in his back pocket, kick his legs out from under him and drop on top of him, aiming my good elbow at his neck with all my weight. The crack would make me sick if I wasn't already sick from everything I'd been through today.

His buddy starts coming round, and I scramble over to him and press down on his throat with my good arm, drop onto him with all my weight.

He puts up a good fight, but on this score my will is absolute and I keep pressing as he gets slacker and slacker until he stops altogether and sinks to the ground. I hold him there for a few seconds more to be sure he's dead and then I stumble to my feet. Adrenaline's starting to wear off and my arm is starting to hurt, my neck and back aches.

But all I need to do to fix that is open the door to the gas station's workshop.

There's two guys in there. I've already got the SMG in my hand and when I see the scene I open fire on the both of them. I don't stop firing at them until the gun's out. Then I shoot through the chains they've got her strung up by and help her stand.

One of them still groans. I kick him over onto his back. Conner, his vest reads. I ask her to help me with the jump cables they'd been using, still hooked to the car battery, and we clamp the black one to his nose, the red one to his d*ck and shut the door behind us.

I straddle the hog. "Are you sure you can ride that," she asks me.

"I'm fine," I groan.

"You're gonna die if you don't get to a hospital soon."

"Madrazo's house," I manage to plead.

She gets on the bike behind me, holds on to the left handle bar, reaching under my useless arm, grips around my chest with her right. I kickstart the hog and guide us steadily away, back towards the city.

"You're a lot of trouble just for a working girl," I say.

"That's what _they_ said," she spits.

I shake my head. "No... I'm not like them."

"I know," she says, softly.

"You're name's not really Anna, is it," I ask after a while.

"No," she admits. "It's Nikki."

Something clicks. "Nikki from the Unicorn," I ask.

"Hold on there Detective," she says, but there's a gentleness to it now.

"There's more to this than anyone's letting on, isn't there," I say. Not a question.

Her grip around me tightens. "Thank you for coming to get me Pawel," she says. "I'm sorry I can't tell you any more right now, but you've really helped me out today."

"Have we met before," I ask her.

"I don't think so," she says.

"But you recognised my name."

She's silent for a while. "You're not what I expected," she says eventually.

There's more that I want to say, but we're in the Vinewood Hills now and we're pulling up to Madrazo's house. There's four armed guys outside. I pull up the bike and Anna... I mean, Nikki, she dismounts, and helps me off. One of the guys says something into his lapel mic and then Madrazo himself steps out of the house and holds out an arm, inviting her to join him inside. I make eye contact with him and he instructs one of his guys to get me in. He hooks an arm around me and guides me into the house. He takes me through to a bathroom, helps me down onto a tiled floor. A minute or so later, Madrazo follows a bald guy in a white coat into the room.

"Madrazo you a$$hole, where is she? Where's Cinnamon?"

"In all honesty, Pawel? I don't f***ing know."

"If you've hurt her," I begin.

He takes a step forward. "If _I've_ hurt her," he asks. "Take a look in the mirror. _You_ are forcing her to sell her body. _Your_ failure as a man is not my doing. It's yours."

"Madrazo-"

He laughs at me. "It really was too easy Pawel. Just like always. Let you _think_ I've picked up your girlfriend. I met her this morning. She was looking forwards to going shopping. Something about you finally earning something again."

Son of a b*tch...

"Why me," I croak.

"Because I didn't want The Lost MC knowing it was me that put their thing out of business."

"That didn't go so well," I argue.

"On the contrary. You think I lost a _lot_ of my men today? That's barely a scratch on the _surface_."

"But the Lost got away-"

"The Lost led my clean up crew to their _real_ hideout. Do you have any idea how hard it will be to kick-start their motorcycles without any feet?"

"This is gonna be all over the headlines," I say. Again, he seems amused.

"The press has a far bigger story to worry about," he says, and walks out so his doctor can work.

It's dark when I'm able to stagger out of Madrazo's house and gingerly ride the motorcycle down into the city. At 23:34 I finally find her. She's at a spot she hasn't worked for a while, getting into a sedan with a fairly young guy in a cheap suit. I follow them until he pulls into an alley and gets out of the car angrily to demand what my problem is.

"Have you paid her yet," I ask him, trying to keep my voice even. Cinnamon gets out of the car.

"F*** you, you f***ing loser, get the hell outta here before-" he begins.

"Curtis," Cinnamon calls. He shuts up and turns to look at her. "Please, just go home before my boyfriend hurts you."

"Shut up and get back in the car b*tch," he shouts and I grab him by the throat with my good hand.

"Pawel," Cinnamon yells. Repeats it after I ignore her. " _Let him go_. Please baby, let him go and we'll go home."

 _It had been a typically bright start to the morning, and I'd been gradually getting used to the raised voices from beyond my bedroom, but this was something else. I crept to my door and opened it a crack.  
My father was angry. He was always angry when he was drunk. Mom used to send me back to my room and I'd have to stay there and stay silent but I knew. She tried to hide it, but I knew.  
He was doing it again today. He'd broken the lamp. But he normally took the money out of her purse and left. Not this time.  
This time the purse was empty. That made him even angrier. That made him pull out his gun.  
I knew I shouldn't, but I ran out of my bedroom then. Ran in front of her, just as he pulled the trigger.  
I remember hearing her scream, remember the look on his face. And then he walked out as everything went black.  
I was in the hospital three weeks and he never came near. On the fourth week, I found him at The Bar. The guys there normally would have been yelling at me to get out, I was after all just a kid, I didn't belong there.  
Every single one of the losers he considered his buddies abandoned him in shame. Not just moved away from him; they left.  
They knew. He knew.  
He thought he could still intimidate me, but after he'd shot me on that day when he'd meant to kill my Mom, before he'd turned and run away like the coward he was, he'd dropped his gun. Afterwards, I dropped it in the sewer and went home. My Mom burned the clothes I'd worn.  
I've encountered a lot of them since, but that was the first wife-beater I _killed _._

 __I don't want to let him go. I want to squeeze the life out of him or pound his head on the roof of his car until he doesn't move any more. But I do as she says.

I _always_ do as she says.

He makes idle threats as he hurries back to his car, but he drives away quick.

" _Damn it_ Pawel," Cinnamon starts to yell, but she stops when she gets close to me and sees the state I'm in. "Jesus," she gasps.

I put my good arm around her, hold her tight. She embraces me too then, and we stand there for a long time with our faces buried in each other's shoulders.


	11. Chapter 11

Part 11 : Pawel Verzynski

I'm vaguely aware that it's Saturday when I wake up, but I'm _acutely_ aware that almost every single bit of me hurts, a _lot_.

I'd have stayed asleep, but my phone is ringing.

"Tell me that was nothing to do with you," Jones growls when I answer.

"Sandy Shores," I ask, sleepily.

" _What_? What's at Sandy Shores," he demands.

"Well, the good news is I had nothing to do with whatever _you're_ talking about."

"Are you in a cave in some desert country that's never seen electricity right now," he asks. "Or are you the only person in Los Santos that doesn't have a TV?"

I groan as I sit up. "I'm _asleep_ , damn it. What time is it?"

"It's 11.15," he protests.

"So, the _middle_ of my _night_ ," I snap. "What do you _want_ , Jones?"

"The same thing I've wanted all _week_! I want _Harvey_! I want to know where the _money_ from the _truck raid_ is! Instead I've got random acts of terror popping up all over the damn state ever since he arrived back here, and you adding to the mess I'm _trying_ to _clean up_. Turn on your damn television and tell me if you or Harvey are anything to do with the god damn main news story!"

He slams the phone down. I throw my cell onto the floor, lay back and groan in agony. Cinnamon comes in with coffee.

"How are you feeling," she asks.

"Better for seeing you," I tell her, honestly. I don't think I've ever seen her in a negligee before but she's wearing a black one now and, _damn_.

"I've got something _else_ I think you'll like, but I'm not sure if you're up to it," she teases as she sets the coffee and some of the painkillers I stole from the hospital yesterday down at my side of the bed.

"Oh yeah?"

She kisses the top of my head and then takes my chin, tilts it gently one way then the other. I still grimace because the whiplash from the crash has got hold.

"I'm not sure if _I'm_ up to it until your head goes back down to the right size."

"That might take a while, if it ever does at all," I say.

"Maybe I should've bought a nurse uniform," she says.

So, yeah, my coffee went cold, but don't worry. Cinnamon kept me warm. An hour or two later my body is draped over our sofa while Weazel News goes over the top news items of the day, the assassination of a major scientist called Dimitri "Dima" Popov, two lawyers shot dead outside city hall and the massacre of a tent community in Paleto Bay in which the victims were gunned down by high-power weaponry and then their corpses burned. The FIB have for some reason taken over the investigation from the Los Santos Sheriff's Department, but lead investigator Special Agent Andreas Sanchez refuses to comment at this time.

News of a turf war in Sandy Shores near the notoriously Lost MC controlled airfield is mentioned almost in passing. Strangely nobody from The Lost MC is interviewed, but only _their_ bodies are shown on the news. How has Madrazo managed to keep a lid on his cartel's involvement?

Bribery or intimidation. Or maybe a little of both.

I can understand why Jones has his panties in a bunch, but I need to sit down and work out how either story is relevant to Harvey. Without knowing his current associations, that could be difficult. Cinnamon is assisting me as my secretary today. That _also_ makes my investigation difficult, especially because her idea of a secretary is what most people would consider a lapdancer, but I'll suffer it bravely even if I am still in pain.

I start with asking who the hell is Dimitri Popov? The news has that one covered for me. He used to be the joint owner of Humane Laboratories along with a Maxim Rashkovsky who is currently incarcerated at Bolingbroke Penitentiary.

That rings an alarm bell. Didn't the woman Harvey was with at the Mission Row station steal a Bolingbroke Prison Transport schedule?

I have Cinnamon bring me the laptop and scroll through the news reports from a couple nights ago, recall seeing something about a car being taken from the docks, a sweet vintage Lampadati Casco. News reports of Popov's death say he was killed whilst seated inside an armored Gallivanter Baller. The shooter took advantage of a rear door being open.

I hit up Eyefind and try to see if I can link Maxim Rashkovsky to ever owning a Casco. There's a lot of press about his business, research, patents and, more recently, of his arrest for being a traitor to the United States. Nothing about him having any interest in cars, or indeed anything about his private life. I could spend the rest of the day scrolling through various news stories and photographs of him, but it would be a waste of time.

But still, I'm concerned. I put a call in to Jones. "Have you picked up any intel about a possible plan to break anyone out of Bolingbroke," I ask. "Particularly Maxim Rashkovsky?"

"Not him specifically, but there was a transit bus stolen a few days ago, plus the transit schedule, so we're preparing for _something_. What makes you think he's the target?"

"The hit on Dimitri Popov," I say. "Do the two lawyers killed yesterday have any connection to Rashkovsky? Or the car that was stolen from the port?"

"I'll make some calls," he says and hangs up.

A few minutes later, he calls back and yells at me "N.O.O.S.E. responded to reports of an assault on the prison twenty minutes ago. Guess who their target was?"

"Holy sh*t... do we know if Harvey's involved?"

"I ain't waitin' to find out. You still on South Rockford?"

"Yeah."

"Be ready and waiting, I'm ten minutes out." I drop the phone and struggle off the sofa towards the garage.

Jones has the siren going all the way to Bolingbroke but we aren't the first to arrive on scene. Already, it's swarming with Feds, although they're all still outside the N.O.O.S.E. perimeter while they finish putting the animals back in their cages.

Be under no liberal delusions. These people are gangbangers, murderers, rapists, armed robbers that will shoot your elderly mother dead if she inadvertently gets between them and their escape. _Bad_ people.

One guy is very clearly in charge, at least over the Feds that give a crap about that kind of thing. He and his lackey approach Jones' car as we get out. Jones goes right on up to him and introduces himself. "Captain Jones, LSPD Mission Row."

The Fed extends a hand to shake with him. "Haines, FIB. How come _you're_ out this far, Captain? Prison breaks fall under _Federal_ jurisdiction but even if it didn't, this ain't your area, is it?"

I give Haines a smile. "The Captain has some political ambitions," I say.

Haines grins, shakes a finger at the Captain. "I get it. You sly old fox." He turns to me now. The way he's looking at me reminds me that I'm not currently a pretty sight. "Who's _this_?"

"Uh, this is an associate of mine. He helps with cold cases, it was him that worked out they were coming for Rashkovsky..."

"Oh yeah? Shame you couldn't have joined the dots yesterday, er," Haines says, extending his hand.

"Pawel Verzynski," I introduce myself as I shake with him. Doesn't recognise me, has no intention of committing me to his memory. But I saw his henchman's eyes dart a little.

Hmm.

Now that we're up close, I recognise him from the news. What was his name, Sanchez?

"Hey," I say, walking up to him and offering my hand to shake. He takes it uncertainly. "I saw you on the TV this morning, you're the lead on that Paleto Bay thing, right? What's _that_ all about?"

"Well, you know," he says. "All my witnesses are _vics_ , so I'm gonna have to wait for the ballistics... uh, you ever work a homicide?"

"A couple," I admit.

"Yeah, then you know how it is. Just gotta wait till the lab can point me in some direction, until then..."

"Well, there's not really a lot else we can tell you at this point," Haines interrupts, wanting us off his scene, _yesterday_.

"Do we know how the attackers got in without being picked up by the CCTV," Jones shoots back. "I got the recording of the call to N.O.O.S.E. It was phoned in, not an automatic response."

"Looks like the CCTV system was hacked," Sanchez says. "The recording just shows the feed looped to the last hour before the hit."

"If that will be all," Haines says, shooting a look at his sidekick. "We've got a lot to try and catch up on and they've already got too much of a head start."

In other words, _get out of here now before I stop playing nice_.

"Of course," says Jones, and hands Haines a business card. "We just want to make sure these b*st*rds get caught. If you need _any_ assistance, you be sure to give _me_ a call. I'll ensure _complete_ co-operation."

"Appreciate that. Thanks," says Haines. He pockets the card but may as well have been flinging it away in front of us.

Jones notices too. "Sanctimonious pr*ck," he complains when we're back in his car.

I say nothing, but that doesn't help me.

"Don't think you're off the hook," he growls. "What the f*** were you doing mixing it with The Lost MC yesterday?"

"The girl," I begin.

"What girl?"

"They were holding a girl at their motel. I thought they were using her against her will as a prostitute, but now I think they might have been trying to interrogate her."

He looks across at me. "And why in Hell would The Lost MC wanna do that?"

"Because she's Gray's regular lapdancer."

"Jesus. Where is she now?"

I look out the window. "With Madrazo."

" _What_?"

I sigh. "Madrazo bought me the intel," I say. "I don't know how he found her or why he came to me but I think it's safe to assume it's connected."

Jones isn't fully buying it. I can see his anger written over his face, but he doesn't say anything, just scowls, grips on harder than necessary to his steering wheel.

"Have you gotten anywhere yet with Gray's former cops," he asks me finally.

"Not yet. I was gonna do that yesterday, but-"

"But you were busy making a mess at Sandy Shores instead."

"It's all connected," I argue.

"Probably," he grudgingly agrees. "But you need to get a lid on this, _now_. _Find_ Shaun Harvey."

"There's a problem," I say. "I need a car."

" _Jesus_ ," he curses. Yeah, that's sort of how I thought this'd go. After a while, he says "Y'know, I bought you in on this cos you're old supervisor said you were a good cop. But you're just a walking disaster zone."

"John Sykes _was_ a good cop," I say. "I was always surprised he promoted me to Detective, more so that he kept me there."

"So it wasn't _your_ idea?"

"Hell no. I was barely fit for the _uniform_."

"Y'know, I'd be more willing to help you with a car if you _hadn't_ have had Lewis' wheels on your Albany. As it is it kind of puts me in a tight spot."

"I can let you hold on to my motorcycle, but I got it from The Lost," I offer. I could ride it, but actually, in my condition, I really can't.

"Why _did_ Sykes promote you," he asks me.

I look out the window. "Because I'm a blunt instrument," I admit.

"You got a thing for making people tell you what you wanna hear?"

"I got a thing for stopping _certain_ people talking at all."

We ride in uneasy silence for a few more minutes. I get to wondering where the hell he's taking me. Eventually, I realise we're on the border between Davis and Rancho. He parks up at the Sheriff's office and he takes me on foot to the LSPD impound yard next door. Identifies himself to the cop on guard and asks if they have anything cheap I can borrow. The cop laughs. "I have just the thing."

"Where've you been," Cinnamon asks me when I walk back into our apartment.

"Bolingbroke," I tell her.

"Find out anything?"

"Not really, but there's a Fed that didn't like hearing my name when I introduced myself."

She frowns and points out. "You're not in _any_ state for another fight like you got in yesterday. You should probably try to _avoid_ antagonising people for a while. Or riding that motorbike you picked up," she adds.

She's right there and I let her help me back to the sofa. "Don't you like the bike," I ask her.

She tries to hide her smirk. "It's pretty cool," she says, but then the smile goes. "I'm p*ssed at you that we ain't gonna get trade-in on the Washington though."

Yeah. That. Too bad about her stretch Patriot.

"I got a loan car from the Captain," I tell her.

"Okay, anything nice?"

"No."

"Lemme go see," she says and heads out to our garage. She's not impressed when she comes back in. "They really gave you _that_?"

"Yep. They really did."

I got a sh*t-colored Japanese sedan, a Karin Intruder. But at least it's easier to drive than the motorbike with my left shoulder out of action. Jones had insisted it be returned with not a single scratch and I've had to sign my life away to borrow it.

We watch the news reports on the prison break on TV. Reporters are at the scene but it's too late for the real action. Maxim Rashkovsky has been confirmed to have escaped with outside assistance. Cinnamon and I sit and watch for a while as they show looped scenes of the wardens, Sheriffs and heavily armed N.O.O.S.E. agents mercilessly securing rioting prisoners to prevent any further escapees.

After a while it gets old and there's no signs of there being any useful new information being reported so I return to the timeline I'd tried to put together yesterday for Harvey's movements. The prison break sort of fits in, but there's plenty I'm missing.

"Baby, do you know any computer geeks," I ask Cinnamon.

"No," she says, screwing her nose up. "Most of them don't bother with real girls, they'd rather pick up pixelated hookers in some video game. Actually," she adds, remembering. "There's one girl I know sees one. Says he doesn't get out of his house much, has to walk with a stick when he's not in a wheelchair."

"Sounds like a fun one."

She shrugs.

"Think you can convince her to give you some details?"

"Maybe. Why," she asks, suspiciously.

"Might be something."

"Uh-huh. And how do I explain when her client can't see her anymore cos you put him six feet under?"

I gesture down at myself with my good hand. "Look at me, I'm a pussycat at the moment. I just want to run something by an expert. You can come too if you want."

"Oh, you think I might be better at getting him to open up," she teases as she straddles me.

The rest of Saturday's pretty slow. All I can really do is sit on my a$$, although that ain't so bad with Cinnamon, er, seeing to me.

There's only so much I can get from Jones' USB stick without talking to anyone that might be able to help me decipher Harvey's code and the news is still running over the same few stories. I know so much about them now and yet so little of worth that it makes me even more nauseous than the whiplash or the meds I'm taking.

I'm still trying to get my head around how Nikki fits into the whole thing as well. The way she reacted when I told her my name set an alarm bell ringing but I don't recall ever meeting her before. Maybe it was just Lieutenant Gray telling her horror stories about me, which is cool if he's scared of me. It'd be nice to be able to talk to her, but I don't know how much she's gonna be kept busy by Madrazo. I want another crack at Gray too, but as far as I know he's still missing.

Cinnamon brings home noodles and chicken in the evening but I'm not really all that hungry, and I go back to bed at 22:20.

Eurgh, what's this? 08:14 on a Sunday morning. Cinnamon seems no happier about it than I do and demands I go back to sleep, but I've already slept too much so I go for a shower. I'd hoped I'd wake up feeling better but I don't, so I hope that the shower will help but it doesn't. So, feeling sick, I decide to go out for a walk to clear my head. I get as far as the garage, then take the sh*t-colored Karin from there.

The pace of life in Los Santos on a Sunday morning isn't really a lot slower than it is the rest of the week. Less suited and booted types dressed up for business, but they're replaced by suited and booted types dressed up for church. The noise of bells makes my head thud, so I drown it out with Vinewood Boulevard Radio. I get the gist that there's special services this morning to pray for the victims of the massacre at Paleto Bay and the law enforcement officers killed in yesterday's prison break. The good people of Los Santos banding together to get through adversity. How touching.

Tonight the gangbangers'll be out banging, the pimps will be out pimping, the dealers will be dealing and life will go on as normal, with scant regard for anyone else's.

Madrazo told me I was a failing Cinnamon as a man. That's been grating since Friday. I kind of brushed it under the weight of my physical discomfort yesterday but being as it's Sunday and we're exploring our demons, let's get that one out in the open.

I'm still not sure Jones is actually going to pay me anything for this week's misadventures and Madrazo sure as hell didn't for my exploits on Friday. Meanwhile, we've still got rent looming and Cinnamon was out Friday spending money on new stuff. I no longer have the option of selling the Albany, and selling a bike stolen from an MC is an extremely risky move even if anybody will be willing to pay anything for it.

Either I need to get good at my line of work or else find some way of getting employed for something I am good at. I've somehow walked into Vespucci now, passing by the Burger Shot. Wonder if they're hiring?

While I'm close to the Vespucci police station, I decide to head on in and see if any of Gray's old crew are about. The Vespucci building is fairly new, entirely modern, very pleasant. It distracts a lot of the guys that have been transferred there from the fact that their careers have stagnated. Vespucci's the kind of place you get moved sideways to, kind of a last step before they put you in a picture-postcard town with literally zero crime when they don't have enough dirt on you to fire you.

"The hell happened to you," the Desk Sergeant asks me when I walk in.

"Bad day at the office. I'm a P.I.," I explain.

"Ah. Wrong extra-marital," he chuckles, knowingly.

"Something like that."

"So what can I do for you," he asks.

"I'm wondering if any of my old friends are in today. Ramirez or Mohammed?"

He chuckles again. "Ramirez retired. About three years ago. Mohammed went around the same time, transferred over to Davis."

Davis is slightly less dead end but a little bit more redneck, being as it's shared with the Sheriff's Department. Collins was sent straight here by Jones, so it seems like the two of them might have been reunited. It feels a lot like deja-vu when I pull back up in the lot but the blonde with the Southern-accent in a white cotton dress and cowboy hat at reception lifts my spirits slightly.

"Hey sugar, you need help with anything," she asks me.

Yeah, plenty. But for now I stick with asking "Mohammed or Collins in this morning?"

"You may be in luck, I think Collins is still on shift for a little while. Who shall I say's askin' for him?"

I give her my name and take a seat to wait. I don't have to sit for very long. An overweight, balding fifty-something quickly emerges and asks me "Pawel?"

I stand. He doesn't offer a hand. Instead he says "there's a restaurant up the street, La Vaca Loca. Why don't you wait for me there and we'll get breakfast?"

Ten minutes later, I'm sitting in a booth seat with my ancient laptop set up, waiting, when Collins barges in, sees me and slides into the seat opposite. "Are you out of your f***ing _mind_ ," he hisses through gritted teeth. "My career _already_ took a nosedive because that b*st*rd Gray was in some coke baron's pocket. I heard all about you, Pawel Verzynski. You wanna tell me why the f*** you're trying to screw me over again just as I'm getting my sh*t back together?"

"Shaun Harvey," I tell him.

"What about him," he snaps.

"He's back in Los Santos." That makes him sit up in surprise.

"Bullsh*t," he says, but questioningly.

I smile now. "I'm afraid not. He walked back in, right through LSX, this past Tuesday evening."

He looks at me, looking for the tell, the crack, the sign that I'm bogus. Obviously, there isn't one. "So what's that got to do with either you or me," he asks, sitting back.

"Your old Captain's having me take a fresh look at the day he disappeared."

We're interrupted by a waitress. He orders something with a name I don't understand. When the waitress turns to me, I simply ask her for the same, and coffee.

"What did you make of Harvey," I ask him when she's gone. "You think he did it?"

"No," Collins says.

"You seem sure."

"He was too numbed by the booze to have even thought of it," Collins explains. "Getting decent case notes out of the guy became impossible once the booze took hold."

"That I've seen first hand," I agree and turn the laptop round so he can see the screen. He thumbs through some of the scanned copies Jones gave me on the USB stick.

"Yeah, that's Harvey's alright." He sits back. "It's a shame. He was a good kid, seemed to have a good thing with that girlfriend of his. And, actually, before he became a lush he wasn't a half-bad Detective."

"Then how come he got fingered for the truck heist," I ask.

"Jones put the blame on him. Almost immediately. Then he started his little witch hunt of everyone that had anything at all to do with Lieutenant Raymond Gray."

"That's when you got bumped out here?"

"Yeah," he says, but then sits back and looks out the window. "I kinda like it though. Sure, it's dangerous turf, but it's where a lot of the sh*t happens. We're right in the middle of scumbag central. All your Latinos mixing it one side, Vagos, Aztecas, Mexis, Salvadorans, Puerto Ricans... an' just over the tracks you've got your, whaddya call 'ems, your African-Americans. Banger turf."

"Must keep you busy," I say.

"Damn straight it does. And next week, I'm gettin' back where I was supposed to be, on homicide. You have any idea the caseload a guy out here can get? I'll be set until retirement."

"These are people being _killed_ you're excited about," I point out.

He disagrees, strongly. "These are _scumbags_ ," he spits, right as our Latino waitress comes with our food. I untuck mine cautiously to check what on Earth I ordered, some sort of pork burrito. It actually tastes pretty good. Collins has gone silent and eats slower than his size would suggest he's capable of. Probably insulting your waitress at your regular haunt is throwing him off how set he's going to be.

I eat half my burrito and drain my coffee. "So if Harvey didn't do it, who do you think did," I ask him. "Ericsson?"

He laughs at that. "Ericsson was a clever b*st*rd, but he never struck me as the type to screw his colleagues over. In all honesty, when I heard about you, you were my first suspect."

"Thanks."

"Nothing personal. Just, I don't know you and... well, you got a _reputation_."

"Ericsson snitched."

He sits up again. "Bullsh*t!"

That _really_ makes me smile. "Jones told me he bought him a file on Gray, Harvey and some other guys a while before the truck heist went down. Says a Fed came the day after the hit and told him Ericsson had testified Harvey was solely responsible."

"What did Jones say about it," Collins asks. He's still sat up, rigid.

"Said he didn't wanna know. It was all neat and tidy."

"He wasn't like that to begin with," Collins says.

"Yeah," I agree. "He said he shook some trees to see what fell out, but stopped when nothing did."

"Shook some _trees_ ," he spits. Shakes his head and sinks back against his seat. "Y'know, I been tryin' ta wrap my brain around it ever since. Jones thought Gray had us _all_ corrupt, _all_ his Homicide unit. But really it was just Harvey and his partner Ericsson that did regular favors. Occasionally Malone and Singh."

"Where are _they_ now," I ask.

"Malone offed himself," he says. "Pretty soon after the Cap had him moved. Singh did a year or so at La Mesa. That's _your_ old precinct, ain't it?"

"Yeah," I agree.

"Yeah, he did a year or so working Robbery there and then quit. I think he does mall security or something now."

"What about the others? Simpson? Ramirez?"

"They're both retired. Simpson before Jones squeezed him out, Ramirez a few years ago. Got bored doing petty theft and missing persons over at Vespucci, kissing rich folk's a$$es all day. As far as I know, both of them were clean."

"And your old pal Mohammed has just joined you at Davis," I say.

"How'd you know that," he asks, then shakes his head. "Whatever, don't matter. Yeah, I'm lookin' forward to doing Homicide with him again. He's a good Detective."

"Neither of you ever did Gray any... favors?"

"F***. You," he replies firmly.

I spread my arms to show I mean no offence. "I gotta ask," I explain.

"You're lookin' for Harvey, I suggest you ask around the low rent motels. Also try the liquor store just up the street. He used to hang about there."

"Thanks," I say. No sign of the waitress for a refill of my coffee, but I don't wanna hang about with this a$$hole anymore anyway, so I peel some cash off my anorexic looking roll and throw it down to cover my share of the check and head out.

I find the liquor store and head inside. There's a half dozen guys in there and one of 'em shouts angrily at me "we're closed!"

"Sorry boys," I say. "I'm not here to shop. I just need to know if Shaun Harvey's been by here in the last week. Any of you know where he is?"

"No," snaps one of them, too quickly.

I realise too late one of his buddies is brandishing a Tec-9. Now that I notice, they're all packing.

"Ah shit," he continues. Now everyone's turned in my direction.

I don't have time to pull the pistol from my shoulder holster. All I can do is grab the first thing that comes to hand, a cardboard crate of twelve cans of beer and throw it at the guys raising their weapons towards me. My left arm's useless so I'm not on target and the throw doesn't have the power it normally would but it's enough to buy me a couple of seconds, time enough to draw my own weapon.

The fat one recovers first. He's trying to think of an insult as he levels a heavy calibre revolver at me. I put a round in his shoulder and one in his leg as I drop into a crouch. Another shot whizzes overhead, would have killed me if I'd been just a fraction slower. I put my bullet where _his_ head is, and that f***er isn't thinking to move so that's one for Collins to get him started.

I'm diving for the door now, blind firing. I hear the Tec-9 spitting, but the bullets don't hit anywhere near me; I got the guy holding it in the neck and he takes out two of his buddies as he goes down. That just leaves the one. He pops a couple of angry shots at me which only miss because I'm falling backwards onto my a$$; I've tripped over a bucket of filthy water and a mop. My back and my a$$ are soaked, cold and foul-smelling. He's coming towards me now with his big silver cannon tilted at an angle. I point my pistol in his general direction and mash the trigger. One shot hits him in the side, another the thigh, and one in his arm making him drop the gun and fall to the floor. I clamber back up, rush over to him and kick him in the face. Probably uncalled for, but then so was the f***er opening fire on me. I check over his buddies; all dead, apart from the fat one, the first one I shot. He's groaning like a three-year old that's wet himself. Wait a minute; he _has_ wet himself. I can't help the smirk that comes to my face as I help myself to his revolver.

"Do you even know who you're f***ing with, a$$hole," cries the other guy.

"No, actually," I admit as I come back to face him, keeping my gun trained on his crotch. "Who are you?"

"F*** you! You're _dead_ ," he spits, then immediately "hey, don't touch me, you can't do that," as I force his wallet from his pocket and flip it open. "Jerome King," I read from his driver's license. "Bet your boys call you 'Rome' huh? Or did. Y'know, before I killed most of 'em."

"The f*** do you _want_ man? This is police brutality or some sh*t," he starts whining.

"I ain't a cop," I admit. "So I'm gonna ask you one last time. While you're still a boy. Have you seen Shaun Harvey this week?"

'Rome ' was honest, but not overly useful. His boys were planning some sort of revenge hit on Harvey. They didn't actually know where he was, but they knew he'd been at some motel in Vinewood on Friday night. It ain't much, but I get back into the sh*t-colored Karin to go check it out. Before leaving, I've taken the recording of the shootout from his CCTV. It's quite a good angle. It clearly shows they threatened me first. That should put him off calling 911.

The manager on the desk at the Pink Cage Motel recognises Harvey from the old photo of him I've got, and takes me to the room they stayed in, but there's a couple of squatters in there now. The Manager busies himself with kicking them out, but I've already lost interest in the suite. Whatever evidence there might have been is useless to me now.

I'm heading out when I step on a piece of paper that's blown out of a nearby dumpster into the parking lot. Picking it up, it looks like a shredded, annotated diagram.

I look around. There's about five dumpsters spread around the parking lot. I look in the closest one. There's a few more torn pieces. None of them seem to match up to the one I have, but all look like they're shreds of plans for something.

I head over to another dumpster. I have to dig a little, but f*** it, I'm not washing my hands. Jones can worry about the germs in the sh*t-colored Karin. There are more bits of torn paper.

Nothing that adds up to much, but fragments here and there. Enough for me to know that Harvey has been redrawing the plans for the truck heist. He's looking into it too.

I need to get hold of him to talk this thing out. I get my phone out, intending to call Collins again, see if he can identify any of Harvey's old CI's.

I have a couple of emails. I open the first one and see that Harvey has already reached out to me. The second one appears to be a follow up, and it's tone is more urgent.

Harvey wants to meet at the Land Act Dam. Now.

I take the Vinewood Boulevard Eastwards to Mirror Park. From there is a dirt road that runs up to the Dam, but there's two cop cars blocking the road. Beyond I can already see the blue and red flashing lights of emergency vehicles. My stomach flips. I reach into the glovebox and turn on the scanner. The shooting of Shaun Harvey is lighting up the airwaves.

I hit the gas and get on the phone, dialling Cinnamon. It rings out and goes to voicemail, so I try the house.

Still no answer. Damn it, Cinnamon!

I'm not entirely sure what's just happened, but I'm pretty sure somebody has just set me up.


	12. Chapter 12

Part 12 : Eduardo Diaz

I've driven out North to Paleto Bay before, and been in a helicopter over the city once, but Las Venturas is the furthest I'd ever ventured from Los Santos, and my first time flying in an airplane. We were there on business rather than pleasure, but I already know I wanna go back there, I'm busy plannin' it in my head gettin' our cases off the baggage carousel at Los Santos X when two uniforms come in and start yellin' for us.

I look over my shoulder, back at her; she looks at me, then she goes on up to let the cops know where we are. A second later, the whole trio's comin' for me.

"Detective Diaz," one of the uniforms asks me. I nod up. "Don't worry about your cases, I'll get 'em," he says.

I straighten. "What's going on," I demand.

"My orders are to get you both on the chopper. You'll be briefed from there."

"What about my car," she starts to argue.

"Give me your keys, I'll take it to the Vinewood precinct," the uniform says.

She does. "Red Cheval Fugitive," she tells him, then reels off the license plate. Then we're ushered with some urgency through a corridor that takes us back airside, where a LSPD helicopter waits for us on a helipad. I let her get in first, then follow. Two more uniformed cops and a pilot wait for us and we're instructed to put the headsets on so we can hear over the helicopter's intercom system and our ears are protected from the engine noise.

"The Captain told us to call him as soon as we picked you up," a Moustachio'd cop whose badge says Moss tells us. "He's patched into the feed. Go ahead, Captain."

Now we hear the voice of our Captain, Kirby, from the Vinewood precinct we work out of.

"Welcome home guys," he tells us as the helicopter lifts off from the pad. "Sorry to grab you out before you've had a chance to acclimatise but while you've been out in the desert, everything's gone to _sh*t_. I don't know if they have news out there, but since you've been away there's been _three_ major assassinations, a _prison break_ and a biker war. _God_ knows what else. The _Feds_ have got most of our resources tied up helping with the escape of a traitor selling US secrets out of Bolingbroke so I need _you two_ on this case that's just come up. It's already generating a lot of interest so _don't screw it up_."

"Okay Captain, what do we know," she asks.

"Not a _damn thing_. That's _your_ job. Shooting at the Land Act Dam, that's all I know so far."

The helicopter brings us down but there's nowhere level enough for the pilot to land it so we're gonna have to drop out the few feet he's hovering above the ground. We're met by another uniformed officer that introduces himself as Walker and he escorts us up the dirt path to the Dam. There's an ambulance parked up, two EMT's working on our vic.

"What's the story here," I ask. Any time EMT's or Fire Department get involved, all our evidence gets trashed, but that's how it is, life saving efforts gotta take priority.

"Male victim, late thirties," Walker says. "Call came in just over a half hour ago, a Dam engineer was coming out for a cigarette break when she sees our vic take a hit in the chest. Gunshot noise follows a second later. She called 911 and reported a sniper, so we all scrambled out here pretty quick. Victim was alive so EMT's were called, but we couldn't get a N.O.O.S.E. unit after what happened yesterday at the prison, so we've secured the scene as best we can. Still _are_ securing," he adds as the helicopter that bought us here circles around overhead. It's now shining its searchlight down on the hillsides that surround the dam.

"Witness is over there," he says, pointing to where a woman in overalls sits in the doorway of one of the Dam buildings. "I've already got her contact details, but I don't know how useful she'll be."

A few lab spooks in head-to-toe whites and breathing masks are weaving their way around the scene, trying not to interfere with the EMT's. They've got the vic on a gurney now and an IV set up and are carefully wheeling him over the rough floor towards the back of the waiting ambulance.

We both approach, identify ourselves to the EMT's, much to their chagrin.

The patient is, sorta, awake. His eyes widen when they lock on my partner. Her's do the same.

"Hey, you _know_ this one," I ask, but she's ignoring me.

He's now struggling with his phone. Maybe some evidence that'll tell us who did this to him.

But no.

I don't know what he's shown her, but he lets go of the phone, leaves it in her hand, keeps his gaze on her as she stands frozen staring at the screen while the medics busy themselves loading the gurney into the ambulance.

"Where're they going," she demands from Walker.

"Mount Zonah," he says.

"I gotta go with him," she shouts to the EMT's, firmly.

"Well hurry up, cos we've gotta _go_ ," the lead EMT snaps.

Walker steps away to say something into his radio. A car pulls up while he's doing that. His partner steps up to it but the guys getting out flash Detective badges.

"Hey, yo," I say, alerting her, stopping her halfway to the ambulance. EMT's are still getting him in so we have a second or two.

"Who's in charge here," shouts the Detective getting out of the passenger door. His right hand's in a pot.

My partner steps toward him. "I am," she says.

"Detectives Fletcher and Lewis, Mission Row" he says. "We're taking over here."

"You're out of your jurisdiction, Lewis. This is _Vinewood_ ," she tells him.

Lewis and Fletcher look at each other. "Look, Princess, this crime scene relates to a high-profile investigation we've already got ongoing..."

"Then I'm sure your Captain will have no problem getting on the phone to ours," I say. They look at me, and I see the judgements in their eyes.

She does too, for her own reasons. "But until our Captain tells us to stand down, the scene's _ours_ ," she adds.

"So you two don't touch _nothing_ ," I finish.

Lewis rolls his eyes and turns back towards their car. Fletcher takes a step forward. "Fair enough," he agrees. "But at least let us observe. We wanna know what evidence there is."

I'm about to concede, but she holds up a finger, takes hold of my arm and asks if she can talk to me.

"Just a minute," I tell Fletcher. He nods and turns away, back to his petulant buddy.

She shows me Harvey's phone now. It's open to his emails, one in particular is open. I read it.

 _Hello Shaun,_

 _You may not remember me, I know you've had your own problems and I'm sorry but I don't know who else to trust._

 _The Lt has sent me under. I'm in deep and I'm over my head. Could_ really _use a friend right now._

 _\- Flowers._

 __"Okay," I start, uncertainly, but what she says next throws me a _real_ curveball.

Being a cop when your family are prominent OG's is a tough gig. You know, OG; _Original_ Gangsta. Big players in the Varrios Los Aztecas, ese, what's _up_?

My pops is Hazer Diaz. He's like Aztecas _royalty_. Rumor is he took the katana I have on the mantelpiece in my apartment and he f***ing _represented_ , y'know what I'm sayin'?

After that, I could have got in the Life. I coulda' been set. Growin' up in my hood, there's an expectation, y'know? Earning your colors is like puberty, it's what makes you a man.

I _love_ my uncles and my cousins. I'm proud of what my pops represents. I'm proud of my heritage. But the Life?

Nah, man, there's gotta be a better way.

Uncle Gal, he don't get it but he tries. Because of his support, remindin' the new blood there'd be no _them_ without my pops, I still get invited to the barbecues. Ortega, one of the current OG's, the one who holds sway on our block, he talks to me, but we don't really _talk_ , y'know?

I got friends I was tight with since first grade. Cousins, brothers, all had my back. And I've had theirs, plenty, but the day I became a cop? All that went away. They cross the street when they see me. Stand at the other side of the yard at family barbecues and parties. They won't say it to my face, prolly cos Uncles Gal an' Sunny are still Royalty - they won't _touch_ me because they know Gal an' Sunny would come down on 'em if they did - but I know. They say that I'm _disgracin'_ my father.

I ask my moms. I been askin' my moms since the day I got accepted at the Academy, since my first day there, since the day I graduated and the day I started my first Assignment. I ask her, am I doing the right thing?

She smiles at me, that strange smile. She kisses me. But she don't answer.

Then Monday comes, an' I put on my suit an' I go to work where half the white cops see a banger with a badge, an' the black cops see a _cholo_ gettin' up in their _bidness_ bullsh*t.

I wanted to be a cop so I could build a bridge between where I came from and where my people oughta be, but instead I find myself stood on that bridge, stuck between both worlds while both ends burn.

Like, I don't belong in either, or some sh*t. It's lonely sometimes and it gets on my nerves, but because of my partner, I ain't on that bridge on my own.

She's pure San Andreas girl, blonde, slender, sun-kissed, she'd be right at home skateboarding Del Perro beach in a bikini or working in some salon. Never mind she's got an IQ that'd make your average banker stop embezzling customer's savings pots to be ashamed for a second. People look at her, those same people that look at me and see a gangsta, they look at her and see a pretty little rich girl playing cop that's gonna one day break down in tears and run away.

Both of us have to work _twice_ as hard to get _half_ as far as these judgemental a$$holes and _everyone_ is just waiting until the day we fail when they can point their fingers and say "tol' you so."

It's why they partnered us. It's why we _kick a$$_.

" _I'm_ Flowers," my partner Candy, Detective Candace Butler, hisses.

" _Damn_ , girl, what the _f***_ ," I whisper back.

"But I didn't send him that email. The vic is Shaun Harvey. He used to work Homicide out of Mission Row," she says.

" _The_ Shaun Harvey?" I was still walkin' my beat in a uniform the day the news broke he'd ripped off some truck for about a bazillion bucks.

"I don't trust those guys," she continues. "I don't want them getting a hold of _this,_ " meaning Harvey's phone. It's an old model iFruit, like the very first one they bought out.

"We gotta _go_ , _now_ ," the head EMT shouts at us.

"Alright," I sigh, thinking on my feet. "Leave it with me, I'll babysit 'em, pick you up when I get done here" I tell her. She gives me that little smile and runs for the ambulance.

Meanwhile I turn back to Fletcher and Lewis. "Alright fellas," I holla. "Walker, let's go talk to the witness. You two, remember, this is _our_ scene till our Cap'n tells us otherwise, so _I'm_ doin' the talkin."

The four of us approach the Engineer. She stands up as we get near. "Is this gonna take long? I _really_ gotta go check Genny number 3, she's been twitchy all week."

"Hi ma'am," I say. "Thanks for your patience. I'm Detective Eduardo Diaz, Vinewood Division, these are Fletcher and Lewis from Mission Row. Are you okay?"

She smiles at that one. "Yeah, I'm fine, cowboy," she says with a sardonic edge to her voice.

I nod, okay. "Can you tell me what happened?"

She shrugs. "Exactly like I told 911 and Officer Walker over there. I come out for my break around eight. I'm not allowed to smoke inside, so I gotta come out here. Push open the door just as the guy's dropping onto the floor. He hits the ground, then I hear a gunshot and called 911."

"And you didn't see anyone else," I ask.

"Nope."

"Thanks-," I start.

"You're telling me he was just standing out here, on his own, waiting to get shot," Lewis snaps.

"Detective," I argue.

The Engineer shoots us an angry glare. "I told you, I opened the door, he's already headed toward the deck."

"I'm gonna need your CCTV and the name of your _supervisor_ ," Lewis demands.

" _Detective_ ," I snap. "Need I remind you, this _ain't_ your jurisdiction? Now you can shut your _mouth_ like I _told_ you or Walker can show you back to your car. _Your call_."

Lewis steps up to me, so I close the distance. Walker breaks it up. "Alright, come on guys, let the Detective work," he says to Lewis. Fletcher takes his partner's arm. Lewis shakes it off and tries to stare me down.

That ain't workin' cos I'm from the _barrio,_ ese. Know how many people have tried to stare me down, bigger, more important fools than this a$$hole?

"Where's the ambulance going," Fletcher asks.

"Central," I say. I see Walker pick up on the misinformation but he says nothing. Lewis stares at me a moment more, and then, finally, heeds his smarter partner and backs off. He turns back after a few steps. "Where's Harvey's phone," he asks.

"Who," I ask, playing innocent, but in my head I'm already screaming how does this f***er already know the vic is Shaun Harvey?

"The victim. Shaun Harvey. Where's his phone," Lewis demands.

"I dunno, holmes," I shrug. "Probably still in the vic's pocket or somethin'."

I have to endure a second or two more scowling and Lewis barely manages to hold off contaminating my crime scene by spitting on it but eventually Walker escorts them back to their vehicle.

"Sorry about that," I tell the Engineer.

"You're good. But I already told you everything I know, which is _nothing_. Can I _go_ now?"

"Yeah."

I walk over to where a couple of crime scene techs in white suits are looking at the main pool of Harvey's blood. "Hey guys, how you doing?"

"Welcome home Mister Las Venturas playa," a female voice I recognise replies.

"Sh*t, is that Abi? How you living, girl?"

"Yeah, can't complain," she says. "Back to slumming it with us Los Santos lowlifes?"

I laugh. "Yo, you know it ain't like that. It was purely business," I say. "I still owe you dinner."

She stands. "You do, but neither of us are gonna have the time for a while. Heard what's been goin' down since you went away?"

I nod. "The Cap'n tol' us a little on our way over here."

"Yeah, I saw your grand entrance. A helicopter no less," she teases.

"Yeah, regular VIP," I say. "What you got for me?"

She walks me through it. "Based on the blood pattern, victim was right around here when he was shot. You can see over there the spatter pattern. We've not found the bullet yet, but he's definitely got an exit wound as you can tell from all this," she says, waving a hand at the main pool. "We expect what's left of it to be somewhere that direction."

'That direction' is in miles of wild hillside. Talk about needle in a haystack.

I turn to look the opposite side. "So the shooter would've been up there somewhere?"

"Yeah. Dickinson and Bailey are up there to see what they can find.

The helicopter that had been circling is now hovering over the area and I can just about make out the figures of Dickinson and Bailey setting up their perimeter. The chopper pulls up as I watch, and then turns, shuts off its light and heads back towards the city. Walker approaches us and calls "no signs of the shooter. They're declaring the area secure."

"Thanks Officer," I say. A lot of Detectives don't bother being polite, to uniforms or techs. Me, I know what it's like to always bear the brunt of guys who think they're more important, so I try my hardest to remember names and to mind my P's and Q's.

And, you know what? Sometimes it pays dividends.

"You're welcome Detective," Walker says. "Do you need a ride someplace?"

"Yep. Regular high roller," Abi says.

I rope in Walker to help me look for the bullet. He's done good doing the whole First Responder thing and he spots the area on the bridge that indicates that it's fallen into the drink. The CSI techs join us and confirm his findings. Make him feel good about himself. He radios in that we're gonna need some divers. Then he takes me home. There's still a couple uniforms at the scene keeping the road closed for the crime scene techs, so it's all good.

I ask Walker to excuse me a moment and call Candy from the car. "What's the news," I ask.

"He's in surgery," she says. "Probably not going to hear anything for a while."

"Want me to get you anything?"

"No, I'm going to see if the Captain can assign some uniforms to keep an eye on him. If he says yes then I could use a ride."

"No problemo _chica_. I'm jus' on my way home to pick up the Voodoo, so tell me when you ready and I'll pick you up out front. Did they take you in at Mount Zonah okay?"

She's quiet for a second. "I had 'em transfer us," she starts.

I groan. "Not the Eclipse," I ask.

"You can pick me up at the Bean Machine outside. I'll bring you some breakfast," she adds quickly.

"Candy, you _know_ you're a cop, not a Samaritan," I ask.

"I know. Just... trust me on this one, okay?"

"Okay," I sigh. "But _don't_ make it a habit. For your _own_ sake."

Walker drops me off and is keen to get out of the neighborhood cos, this is the _barrio_ , know what I'm sayin'?

 _There's_ my baby. I'll see to her in a little while, but first things first, I'm gonna go up into my apartment and clean up. I'm jus' gettin' the shower running when I hear a noise so I unholster my piece and go investigate, an' there's Uncle Gal.

I'm not sure whether Gal is everybody's uncle or just mine. He and my pops go way back.

"E-D? I didn't know you were back holmes. I saw your light on..."

"Yeah, we just landed about a couple hours ago," I explain.

"You been to see your Moms?"

"No, I'd not even got outta the airport 'fore the Captain called us to a new one."

He nods. "It's been crazy times this week, ese. It's prolly a little late now, but you should see her in the morning."

"I will," I agree. I'd been lookin' forward to goin' over tonight, Candy was gonna drop me off but that's how it goes.

"We missed you at the barbecue today," says Gal.

Every Sunday Gal gets the family together and barbecues, right after church.

I smile. " _You_ missed me, and maybe Sunny, if I'm still in his good books," I say.

He does that awkward chuckle, looks at the ground. "Yeah," he says.

"I missed you too," I add. "Uncle Galeaso...?"

"Yeah, E?"

I have to swallow because this question's gonna be difficult. I've been tryin' and puttin' it off for a long time. "Do you think... I mean, what with what my Pops means to the Aztecas..."

"I know what you want to ask me," Gal interrupts. He puts his hand on my shoulder now. "You want to know if I agree with what the others are sayin'? But I can't answer that for you."

"Alright... look, you know I really appreciate all you done for me," I say, but he waves a hand.

"Ah. Did you get your serial killer," he asks me, changing the subject.

"No," I say. "The whole thing was a wild goose chase."

He shrugs. "You'll get him. Go see your Moms," he tells me. We embrace for a second and then he heads out.

After I've showered I call Abi. She's still at the scene. Divers have just gone into the water, but they're not holding out much hope. They've got some heavy tire treads though, not in the actual area where they think the shot came from, but not too far away, and not where they'd expect an SUV, nor pretty much anything, to have driven so there's something. I call Candy to see if she's ready to go see the Captain. She says she is; Harvey's still in surgery and uniforms have arrived, so I get in the Voodoo and go pick her up.

"You've got new blankets," she notices as she slides into the passenger seat.

"Yeah. I had her valeted and my Pops' bandana cleaned too."

"I can tell. The turquoise really shines now."

Some people call my car a beater, but it's a genuine OG DeClasse Voodoo, lines like they not allowed to make no more. Crash regulations and sh*t. Sure, she's a li'l rusty, but she drives straight, starts first time, usually, sometimes with some smoke, and more'n any of that, she's _mine_. The upholstery's not too good so I trimmed the seats with Mexican blankets and I've got my Pops' Aztecas bandana flying from the rearview mirror. One day I'll get the bodywork done. Fit the wire spokes I got boxed in my apartment. Install hydraulics.

You know what they say, you can take the _cholo_ out of the _barrio_...

She turns on my radio. It's set to East Los FM. Not my favorite station, but it's the local flavor, it's what you listen to in the hood. They're playing _El Tatuado,_ the Don Cheto record.

The chorus is ' _por que te tatuates (pos nomas)_ , _por que te pintates_ _(pos nomas), por que te rayates (pos nomas), ya te desgraciates you stupid fat a$$'._

It's about getting yourself all tattoed up with stupid sh*t you're gonna regret, but she's singing "I can't find my car keys, oh man... Have _you_ seen my car keys? Oh man...".

Dancing to it in the passenger seat too, she's got her arms up and she's bouncing like the hottie in some rap video.

I know some homies that'd get all screwed up at that, tell her she's bein' all disrespectful and sh*t, and maybe I should be offended too but, damn it, it's _funny_.

Maybe it's that she speaks more Spanish than any other cop at the precinct, or maybe it's cos she's endlessly sweet.

She could easy be a bimbo or a self-absorbed, entitled, rich b*tch (she has the trust fund for it), but she's not. She's got this whole charisma, she's genuinely interested in people, and she's deadly serious about her work as a cop. And she's fed up of a$$holes keep telling her she can't cut it.

Whatever the reason, it's funny so _I'm_ singing that I can't find my car keys, too. Oh man...

After the song finishes we wanna change the station cos we both get wound up with the way we naturally try to translate it all into English. It hurts our brains. She wants Non Stop Pop and I want an oldies station, so we compromise at Vinewood Boulevard Radio and pretend to be hipster kids.

We get to the precinct and we're greeted by Keaton, a lanky white boy Detective with an unusually brown nose who declares loudly "hey, look, the honeymooner's are back," when we get into the office.

"Hey Keaton," Candy sighs. "Never a pleaure," she starts.

"Always a bore," I finish and we push past him, one either side, to our desks where our cases have been opened and our belongings strewn over our desks. Nice. I swear sometimes it's like we work in kindergarten.

"I should've put cheap lingerie and a d*ldo in my case," Candy complains.

" _You_ should've," I ask. She raises her eyebrows at me and we both grin.

"You two, in here," Kirby calls to us from his office, although he's still got his phone pressed to his ear.

We sit for several minutes while he finishes his conversation and then hangs up. "That was the Commissioner," he says. "He's got some concerns that I put you on the case, Butler, apparently you and Harvey have some history."

"Not really. Just that he was one of the few Detectives that didn't sexually harass me when I was working on despatch."

"Did I say I cared," Kirby snaps. "I told him you two are professional enough to handle it and neither he nor I want Mission Row taking this off us. For your benefit, Diaz, your victim Shaun Harvey used to be a Homicide detective at Mission Row and was the centre of what _could_ have been an embarrassing scandal for Captain Jones when he _allegedly_ killed a crew of thieves that had stolen an armored truck, and then stole the thing for himself on the day that Los Santos experienced a large-scale terrorist incident."

"I don't think he did it," Candy starts.

"Did I _say_ I _cared_ ," Kirby repeats, firmly. When Candy sinks back in her seat, he continues. "Jones has been on the phone to me already alleging that the shooting is tied to an investigation _he's_ got going on. In and amongst all the chaos that's been kicking off while you two have been enjoying Las Venturas, apparently one of his Lieutenants went missing. As well as that, Jones has been poking his nose in matters that don't concern him, namely the Maxim Rashkovski prison break. He wanted the Feds to go to him if they needed assistance, so guess which is the only precinct in the city _not_ helping with the investigation."

"Is it Davis," I ask.

"La Mesa," Candy tries.

"Rockford-" I start.

"Will you two knock it off," he yells. "I've just told the Commissioner how _professional_ you two are, although why I didn't just let him take the case off us I don't know, because now I'm counting on _you_ to _be_ professional."

"Aww. I was gonna say Vespucci," Candy complains.

He's trying to hide it, but we can see Kirby's smirking. See? Candy just has this _effect_. "Can you _please_ tell me something _vaguely_ intelligent that pertains to the case," he says.

"Well, the bullet's currently missing, but after coming out of the victim's back it took a big chunk out of the stonework in the dam before it went into the drink, so we know we're definitely dealing with a high velocity round, consistent with the sniper report," I say.

"Strange that there was no follow up shot though, because Harvey's still alive," Candy adds.

"Oh yes, about that," Kirby says. "Would you care to explain to me _why_ he's been taken to the Eclipse Medical Centre? We don't have the budget for that, he's lucky he was on his way to Mount Zonah."

"I've got his medical bills," Candy says.

"No you _haven't_ , _Detective_ ," Kirby spits. "You're supposed to be impartial. Objective. Paying for private medical care for a GSW victim doesn't look very impartial."

"Well, I had concerns for his safety," Candy argues.

"Mission Row came in pretty hot and started throwing their weight around. They were hard on the witness who we already knew couldn't tell us anything and it's like they knew who the vic was before _we_ did."

"Something _definitely_ doesn't add up," Candy says, but then she goes very quiet.

"I hate it when you do that, Butler," Kirby says. "Come on, out with it."

Candy brings an evidence zip-lock out of the pocket of her suit jacket. Kirby's face falls. "Je-sus," he curses. "Tell me that's not Harvey's phone?"

"There's an email on it," Candy says. "It's addressed to Shaun, signed from 'Flowers'."

"So?"

"So, 'Flowers' was his nickname for me. Cos of my tattoo."

Kirby looks at her hard. "Have you been in email correspondence with a known fugitive, Detective Butler?"

"No sir."

"Then who's pretending to be you," he asks.

"I don't know, but I'm betting that's what bought him back to Los Santos," she says. "He was surprised to me, and it seemed important to him to show it to me."

"That's right," I agree. Probably pretty dumb, and she might wish I'd stayed silent, but she's my partner, I've got her back. "Find who sent the email and we might find the shooter," I finish.

"Give me that," Kirby demands and snatches the zip-lock. "Chain of Evidence, Butler. You never had this, understand?"

"Yes Sir. But there's another email on it."

"Okay. Pertinent?"

"I think so. Harvey had reached out to a guy called Pawel Verzynski. Verzynski apparently emailed him back asking for the meet at the Dam."

"Have you put out the APB?"

"No," Candy says.

"Don't. Find out who and where he is and grab him quietly. _Qui-et-ly_! Get on it."

Candy and I head back out to our desks, haphazardly throw our stuff into our cases to sort out later, clear some space so we can work. I'm just running Verzynski through Eyefind when Candy's cell starts ringing.

"That's the hospital," she tells me when she comes back. "Harvey's out of surgery. I'm gonna go see what he can give us. You okay bringing Verzynski in by yourself?"

"You kiddin'? I could bring _Jack Howitzer_ in by myself," I say. Several of our esteemed colleagues laugh. "You guys don't got any work of your own," I complain at them.

Verzynski seems to have run a private investigations outfit but his licenses all expired a couple months back. It's registered to an address on South Rockford so I head on out there to check it out. Walker gave me his number so I call him and ask if he's busy, he says no and I pick him up nearby on my way.

There's no answer when we buzz Verzynski's number at the front door, but Walker spots there's a garage around the side of the building that's open. There's a bike in there, some sort of custom chop, and the door into the apartment looks to have been forced open. Walker and I draw our pieces. I let him take point, but I've got my ID to hand. He calls "LSPD, anybody inside?"

No answer.

He looks to me for confirmation and then the two of us head into the apartment building. Hallway full of doors, all locked except for one. Care to guess who's?

Walker pounds on the door. "LSPD, open up," he shouts. We wait, but again, nobody responds, so Walker pushes the door open with the barrel of his gun and the two of us swing inside.

It's a mess in there. But it's clear.


	13. Chapter 13

Part 13 : The Brunette

Leaving the carbine in the truck was stupid. If I was still with the Vagos, they'd have let me get killed for something like that, let the OG's sacrifice me for a square foot of turf somewhere.

Not for a long time have I stared my own certain death in the face, especially not at such a close distance.

This isn't a change of subject, but I don't do guys. _Ever_. Not since my Vagos "initiation".

So I did Harvey last night, and then I go and turn into a dumba$$ Nancy damsel-in-distress. But then my boy, he manned up. Right from way out, he put that puta _down_ , y'know?

Did I really just say 'puta'? F*** it, old habit. We were the only white family in a _chicano_ 'hood. We shouldn't have been there, but our parents didn't want us to grow up in a trailer, so...

So, yeah, Harvey just goes and saves my life. I think he was expecting me to be mad at him 'cos none of his shots were kill shots, not at least until the one that really _mattered_. An' it's funny cos, out of everyone on the crew that day, I thought _Harvey_ 'd be the one to turn on us.

Later that night, when we're partying in that dead f*ck's apartment, or _I'm_ partying anyway, Harvey gets a good long look at me making out with the str*pper. Normally I'd cut a guy's eyes out with my straight razor but he's earned it. Guy's been jacked up too tight for too long anyway. Not that I haven't... guess neither of us was really on top of our game last night but - and I feel so lame for saying this - it was _nice_. Y'know?

So after that, we're talking and I get to thinking about how I _should_ be mad. Most of his shots were misses. The ones that hit wounded. Our traitor was the only one that got a meaningful bullet from Harvey's gun.

But, you know what? I'm not.

I actually feel a little bad for him, and a little good at the same time. It's like, he didn't grow up in the Life. He's not been Involved. Cop, sure, and not entirely a good one, but I'm getting the impression that he's not as bad as people have been saying he was.

I wonder what it's like to not be so cynical, for a person's life to not be so readily exchangeable for your own?

So, without understanding it, I _understand_ it. To Harvey, those guards, those cops, they were people just like him, working for The Man, maybe with kids at home they want to go and play with. It was important to him that he didn't _kill_ anyone. And, despite everything, apart from the guy on our crew that turned on us, he didn't. And I _should_ be mad because that put us in more danger, but good for him.

When finally he passes out, I slip out of the apartment and head downstairs a few levels to the apartment where _I_ live. _Nobody_ comes in here 'cept me.

My Dad, he tried his best to keep us outta the Life but, what with the cancer and our Mom's poor judgement, my big brother and I _had_ to fall in line to stop the loan shark that she went to from turfing us out of our house, pimping her and making our lil' bro into a 'soldier'.

So I was twelve when I earned my first tear, but they wouldn't let me have it inked, least not till I was "initiated". Then they wouldn't let me get it done after that, either. Yeah, that was a b*tch. Remember how I said I don't do guys, _ever_? Even if they're not screwing you, they're _screwing_ you, y'know?

I didn't get to stay in school, either, so this Life, this all the education I got. So, my big brother an' me, we didn't like it, but we were loyal. We had to be. Two years, we did everything they told us, went everywhere they wanted us, always right on time. But loyalty with the Vagos means nothing, 'specially if you _ain't_ the right color.

I don't know if Mom and li'l bro moved out like I urged them to after they turned on us. I never heard from 'em again and I split, all the way to Las Venturas. Yeah, there's more to _that_ story, but I think I've opened up enough, don't you?

I never planned on comin' back, but a guy online reckoned he could get me into something major. _He_ couldn't, but some boys he knew could and I soon caught the attention of Madrazo, and then Lester.

Ah, Lester. Lemme tell you somethin'. He's a weird, scary creep. And he's honest about it. I wouldn't trust him as far as I could throw him.

But I respect him. And, after yesterday, I respect Harvey, too.

I sleep for six hours and then I get up, shower, put on a lycra crop top and pink shorts and sneakers and I go for my regular morning ride on my mountain bike around the city. Grab a coffee and a muffin from Bean Machine along the way. Just another morning health freak in the City of Saints.

When I get back into my apartment, before going for another shower, I put in a call to Brii.

"Yo, wassup," I greet her.

"Hey, Turbo," she says and I can hear the smile in her voice. I always like talking to Ant and Brii.

"Where are we at with the thing at Paleto," I ask.

"Ant and I scoped it out yesterday. Sheriff's department have been kicked off the case by the feds!"

"Really," I ask.

"Yeah. It's a guy called Sanchez that's heading it up, but we couldn't actually get into the scene to try and snoop much more, so we tried to learn as much as we can when they came into the diner where we were scoping them from."

"Oh yeah? What did you pick up?"

"Not much. Sanchez is dragging his heels."

"That's great, thanks. I'll see if my contact can dig anything up on him."

"Alright. Hey, you hear about what happened at Bolingbroke yesterday?"

"Yeah. Crazy sh*t, huh," I say.

" _Really_ crazy," says Brii. "Okay, see you later Turbo!"

It seems odd to me that the feds would muscle in so quickly on the shooting. I mean, yeah, it was a massacre, but it's out in the Sheriff's territory. I'm surprised they let word of it get to the FIB.

I'mma need some more intel on this Sanchez character. Only two reasons I can think of why he'd be taking the investigation slow, and I'm too mistrustful of law enforcement to think he's paying due diligence. More likely he already knows more about it than he wants his agency to believe; he's hiding something.

The sh*t we pulled at Bolingbroke will be perfect for him, shifting attention away from the massacre. That makes me angry; those people _deserve_ justice.

I got another call to make first though. I call my girl Fufu. She works at the Unicorn, same with my other girl Chastity who I called to entertain us at our party last night. They're on opposing shifts an' I'm not sure if either of them knows I'm sorta seeing 'em both.

"Hey," Fufu greets me lazily.

"Hey yourself b*tch," I say, affectionately but slightly annoyed. "How long's it gonna take you to get over here?"

Fufu knows the route and the ATM's to use to pick up cash from ten of the twenty five accounts my payment is split between. Yeah, I prolly need my head checking out trusting her with it, but if she rips me off I have ways of making her regret it.

Yeah, she's hot for me but she's a little scared too. Keeps her in line.

I know, I hate it when guys do that sh*t and I'm a hypocrite, but it can't be denied; with the right kinda girl, that sorta treatment _works_.

"I've got two more to do," she says in that sweet, sexy French accent of hers. "I'll be at yours in twenty or thirty minutes."

"Make sure you are, and make sure it's all _there_ ," I tell her and hang up.

I decide to shower at my other apartment and head out to the elevator to go down to the parking lot under the building.

I've been favoring the Warrener lately since I only just got it running again after the last job I did for Lester. I picked it up when I first got back into Los Santos; it was my Dad's. After the job yesterday, there may be some heat on it so today it's staying put. I don't have to worry about any of my neighbors snitching. _Nobody_ who can afford to live in this tower wants anybody looking too hard at their checking account. Instead, I briefly consider the bike Harvey stole for me, but instead I opt for a little bit of luxury. I've got an Obey Tailgater, but not like those gray or white ones you see everyday. Mine's midnight blue with a pearlescent flip, some serious tuning under the hood. It's still pretty subtle, but plenty potent if I need to push it. Today I don't need to, but I can't help myself.

I park up under the apartment building on Integrity Way where my first high-end apartment is situated, next to my custom Western Bagger and my _other_ other Daemon (I had three, before one of them got destroyed at Paleto Bay), and take the elevator up to my floor. I'm just getting done in the shower when Fufu buzzes for me. I let her in and we kiss for a little while before she empties her purse out onto my table and sits down silently to let me count it. It's all there; good girl. I flip her five hundred for being loyal, and I'll probably spend twice that again on her once the heat's off.

Later on I'll get Chastity to hit another ten ATM's and I'll have ten grand cash to blow through, less what I give my b*tches. The feds will prolly be looking for large withdrawals for a while, so I'm not gonna risk getting the cash myself, but a couple strippers?

"So, what you wanna do today," Fufu asks me when she realises it's safe for her to speak.

"I got things I gotta do today baby," I tell her apologetically. " _Club_ stuff."

Nah, it ain't really Club business, but she don't argue with that explanation cos she don't wanna end up wearin' a 'Property of BMMC' kutte and bein' shared with the other guys. But I can tell she's bummed as she gets her ass up off my sofa and mopes towards the door. I stop her and kiss her, meaningfully. Whatever, I _like_ this chick. "Promise I'll make it up to you later," I say.

"Okay baby," she says. She's got her sh*t together when she walks out my door and it doesn't hit her on the a$$, although _I_ thought about spanking it 'fore she left.

I consider getting on the Daemon, but instead I get back in the Tailgater and ride it out, take the tunnel to Pillbox Hill and then hook a left onto the highway to go back to Paleto Bay.

I pull in at the diner where I disposed of my bike and stole the Sabre that I drove Harvey and I back to the city in a couple days ago. There's still two cops from the Sheriff's Department standing under the tunnel preventing anybody from getting into the scene. After Fufu left I put on a gray suit to try and look professional and I approach them now. They watch me as I cross the highway towards 'em.

"Morning boys," I greet them. "Sanchez on site?"

"You got some identification, ma'am," one of 'em asks me. His nametag says 'Dixon'.

I shoot him a look. "Really?"

Dixon hooks his thumbs in his belt. "Really," he shoots back at me. "You might think of us as small town hicks up in boonies, but we run a pretty tight ship out here."

"Why don't you let me be the judge of that? Is Sanchez here or not," I sneer.

Dixon and his partner, Walsh, look at each other, then back at me.

"Depends who's askin'," Walsh says.

"Know what, I don't have time for this," I say and turn my back on them, take out my cell.

Behind me, Dixon sighs. "There's no-one here right now," he admits. I turn back to them and raise my eyebrows, like, _and_?

"Maybe you haven't heard but pretty much everyone's tied up with the Bolingbroke thing," Walsh adds.

"Everyone but you two," I point out. They don't like that. Walsh spits on the ground. "Don't go contaminating the scene," I add, and then turn and stride back across the highway towards my car without giving them a second thought. Just like a real fed.

No way in hell am I going anywhere near the prison so I get on the phone to Lester while I'm driving back South into the city. "What can you dig me up on a fed called Sanchez," I ask him.

"That wouldn't happen to be Agent Andreas Sanchez, who's currently heading up the crime scene in Paleto Bay, would it," he asks me.

"Your insight is amazing. Truly," I tell him in monotone.

"The same can be said for your ability to get yourself mixed up in _messy situations_ ," he jeers, and then sniggers at himself for having said something vaguely sexual.

"You got something or not?"

"Well, seeing as you ask, I know he's currently investigating some _thing_ that happened some place I don't want to know very much about. Second in command to some Fed jerkoff called Steve Haines who you might recognise from Underbelly of Paradise."

"What's that, some website you spend your time on?"

"No, moron, it's on TV. You know, how normal people let themselves get lied to, misinformed, be placated from rioting against the current world order-"

"Lester," I interrupt, more firmly than I meant to.

"I, uh, don't really have anything more for you than that right now," he admits. "Paige and I are still working hard today doing damage limitation and making sure neither of you can be tied to the, uh, _thing_. And if you can, that you can't be tied back to us. Nothing personal, but, y'know..."

I knew it. This Sanchez character is grinding the whole Paleto investigation to a halt. "Can you get me a picture of him? An address?"

"Address? Try the FIB building," he snaps. "Hang on," he adds. A second or two later my phone bleeps. There's the photo.

"Alright. Well, I'm not going anywhere near _that_ place but if I was, what would the play be?"

Lester gets done talking and I call Fufu, ask her to meet me out front of the diner in La Mesa.

"You know any feds," I ask her when she gets in my car.

"No," she argues. "I mean, I don't think so... aren't they supposed to be _secret_?"

"Some are," I agree. "Others can't seem to keep their mouths shut, especially when they wanna impress some pretty little _chica_." I stroke her cheek to back up the compliment, but she's nervous.

"What's all this about," she asks me.

"Like I said earlier," I tell her. " _Club_ business."

"Baby please," she starts yammering. "I haven't said _anything_ about you to _anybody_ , I don't know anything about your club other than it scares me-"

I hold up a hand to stop her. "Fufu, relax," I say. "I ain't told you _enough_ about me that you can go getting me in trouble. I'm just looking for an easy in, but we're gonna have to do things the hard way."

"What are you talking about," she asks, her voice trembling.

"Didn't I say 'relax'," I ask her, softly this time. "I just gonna need you to put some overalls on and do a little job for me."

"Overalls?"

"Nothin' kinky. _Actual_ overalls. If you want, you can leave the top unbuttoned, sex it up a little bit."

Fufu's still nervous. She's wearing a pair of glasses Lester gave me. A year or so ago, not content with putting invasive street-level mapping online so people could see you with your face blurred out having s*x with your neighbor's wife, Eyefind did an experiment with 'em, sort of an augmented reality thing, called Eyefind Four Eyes.

Most people used them to upload candid footage of girls' cleavages or butts in short skirts on the metro. Lester's done a little upgrade to his so it creates a VPN, a virtual private network, on the Feds' wifi and then streams what she's seeing in real time to him so he can talk her through what she's doing.

She passes through the lobby metal detectors. If they're going to pick up on the glasses it's now, but Lester's already thought of that. They beep when she goes through and a female agent asks her to remove anything metal she's got and try again. She drops the glasses and a set of keys with a big metal keychain shaped like a flower into their bowl and goes back through, gets her items back, and she's in.

That's when she puts the glasses on and activates them so Lester and I can hear her and he can see where she's going.

The overalls and the access card she's carrying belong to the girl currently in my trunk, a janitor whose details Lester pulled off her agency's website. Lester suggested I _persuade_ her to lend her car and uniform to me. I did _that_ alright.

I'm sat in the car around the corner from the FIB entrance. If something goes wrong, I'm gonna need to either get Fufu out of there _fast_ , or else... well, I'll cross that bridge when I get to it.

Anyway, I only have the audio feed, not the visual. But finally I hear her singing which is her audio clue to Lester that the glasses have patched in to the VPN.

From there the job is simple. She needs to clean the workstations on one of the levels. Lester's given her a USB to plug into one of the computers that along with the glasses will get him access, but she needs to make sure she's not seen by CCTV or any of the agents still working this floor at this time on a Sunday. Unfortunately my exploits yesterday have made the building busier than it normally would be, but there's nothing I can do about that now.

"Hey, sweetheart," I hear a man's voice saying. "Not seen you in here before. What agency we get _you_ from?"

My heart catches; one, some a$$hole's hitting on my girl, and two, she's about to blow her cover!

"Oh, I'm a spy from the IAA," I hear her say, and then the guy laughs.

"Is that so? Maybe I need to interrogate you about that over a cup of coffee?"

Now she giggles. "I'd love to, but, my mission's kind of time critical? Got to get these desks clean before the end of the world!"

He laughs again. "Some other time then? When do you, er, surface?"

"Oh, not for a few hours," I hear her tell him. Classic blow off. Good girl.

"Okay, well, don't look like I'm gonna be leavin' here any time soon, either," he sulks.

"The prison thing? I saw that on the news. Just awful. You can get them, you just need to realise what it is your missing," she says, encouragingly.

He laughs again. "What I'm missing is the bar and the game," he says, but then it goes quiet. Lester's voice comes over and tells her "well handled, I thought he would have made you for sure."

I hear her say "oops," and realize she's accidentally-on-purpose dropped her cloth, her cover for slotting the USB stick into one of the computers when she bends down to retrieve it. And then, she's quiet for a long time.

I can't hear her and I can't talk to her, or Lester, so listening to the silence is frustrating as hell. Finally I hear Lester say "got it, get out of there."

"Three more to do," she says.

 _No, girl, just make an excuse and get_ out _!_

"Hurry it up then," Lester says. "I don't know how long it will take them to realize they've been hacked!"

"Two left," she says quietly.

 _Come on, come on..._

I hear voices talking, getting louder. Have they realized?

"How's it coming," Lester urges.

"Last one," I hear her sing song. The voices from beyond seem to be getting more urgent. What's going on?

"You need to get out of there, quickly," says Lester. "Don't forget the drive!"

"Okay, onto my next job," I hear her say.

"Hold on," calls a man's voice.

Oh _sh*t_. I grab the handle for the car door, and my pistol.

 _There were six of 'em on the day the Vagos turned on my big brother and I, decided we were convenient to some other sh*t went down on some other block to appease some other OG's. There's a tattoo on my right shoulder, a hibiscus with a bee. I haven't decided which one represents who. It covers the scar from where the knife went in. They wanted to kill us both, but they had another use in mind for me first._

 _It tears me up to think my brother died thinking he'd failed to save me. They shot him first, before they stabbed me, thought they'd finished him off quick, but he wasn't so easy to kill. They'd shoot him three more times before they finally managed to stop him, and bought me the time I needed to use that knife, still covered in my own blood, to avenge the both of us. Killed two, turned one into a girl. He got two of them for me, but the one still standing snuffed him out and threw him in my way to stop me finishing the lot of them. Made sure he was able to run back to the barrio to spread the word that my family was greenlit while I cradled my big brother in his last seconds trying to let him know he'd not failed me. Those last few seconds were all I got, and he was already too far gone to realise._

"Happy birthday to you," about a dozen voices start to sing over the audio feed. Fufu joins in on the second bar.

 _Holy sh*t_! I relax back in my seat, hide the pistol, breathe a sigh of intense relief.

There's cheering and clapping then. Once more I hear Fufu say "whoops," and then I hear sounds of her moving, swiping out, saying goodbye to the guards in the lobby. I fire up the engine and hit the gas.

I bring the car in front of the FIB building just as she's jogging down the steps, resist the urge to speed off when she's in the passenger seat, but make a mental note to change the license plate on the Tailgater, ASAP.

She hands me the USB. I kiss her hand and drive us to the Murrieta oilfields to let the janitor in the trunk go free before we head to Lester's place.

Fufu's not happy about waiting in the car and starts moaning that she's gonna have to get to work at the Vanilla Unicorn, soon, but I gotta get this to Lester to find out about the Fed.

He promises to call me as soon as he's got something so I get back in the Tailgater and head for the stripclub. Hope I don't catch Chastity coming off shift. At least not until Fufu's inside, anyway.

I pull up, not in the lot, but at the side of the road near the alleyway down to the front door.

"You not coming in," she asks me.

"Aren't there rules against that," I reply.

"Rules only say no boyfriends," she answers with a grin.

It's tempting, but if she spends her whole night dancing for me in a private booth then she's not really gonna earn anything. I remind her of that.

"Okay, well I guess it'll have to be a private dance at your place then. Shame, though, it's not as kinky."

"How about in the car instead," I offer.

"Mmm, better," she teases and leans over to give me a goodnight kiss. I watch her little ass as she sashays down the alley until she's disappeared into the club, and then set off. Just as I'm wondering where to go my phone rings.

It's Lester.

"Shaun Harvey has just taken a bullet," he says.

"What the f***? Where? When," I demand.

"Land Act Dam, don't know when, don't know if he's alive. Cop f**ks are gloating about it all over the airwaves. Hang on..."

I'm already pulling a handbrake turn to go back on myself, drop the phone, have to lean down and scramble around with my hand in the passenger footwell until I find it, nearly rear-end a Bravado SUV and have to pull hard right and gun it towards an oncoming box van before squeezing back in, earning a medley of angry honks.

"Repeat the last thing you said," I demand.

"Ambulance is en-route to Mount Zonah," he says.

"Who's investigating the case," I demand.

"You're not gonna believe it," he says.

"Damn it, Lester, I don't have time-"

"Eduardo Diaz," he interrupts. I don't know that name, but Lester's still talking:

"-and _Candace Butler_."


	14. Chapter 14

Part 14 : Candace Butler

One moment I'm annoyed at not having been afforded the opportunity to go home, shower and change before being press-ganged back onto duty, still gripped by the disappointment of my trip to Las Venturas being a waste; the apparent development in our hunt for the C-section killer turned out to be a bogus lead. Yes, he _really_ kills his victims with caesarean sections, apparently after having imprisoned and abused them for nine months, hence why E-D and I are so desperate to catch the b*st*rd.

But in the _next_ moment, all that's blown away.

He's strapped to a gurney with a breathing mask on his face and an IV drip, and his chest is torn open and bloody but it's Shaun - our victim is Shaun Harvey!

"Hey, do you _know_ this one _,"_ E-D's asking me, but I can't get my brain around how the hell to respond.

Shaun's eyes are locked on me and they're wide. There's a tear runs down his cheek and he starts struggling. At first I think he's about to spasm and die on us right there, but then he's forcing something into my hand. I look down and see that it's his phone. My eyes flick back to his but now he's nodding urgently towards it and I look down again, see him tapping the screen.

I know I shouldn't do this, but he's insistent and it could wrap this whole case up. So I take it and I look at what Shaun's trying to show me.

There's an email open on the screen.

 _Hello Shaun,_

 _You may not remember me, I know you've had your own problems and I'm sorry but I don't know who else to trust._

 _The Lt has sent me under. I'm in deep and I'm over my head. Could_ really _use a friend right now._

 _\- Flowers._

My heart is in my throat. Flowers... He used to call me that; _just_ him. For such a short email, it opens a whole lot of questions, even more than Shaun actually being here.

I become aware that the Emergency Medical Techs have left us behind, but the Officer that first responded is still stood with us. "Where're they going," I manage to force myself to say. He winces, and I realise how I must've sounded.

"Mount Zonah," he replies.

I turn around and see the EMT's are loading Shaun into their waiting ambulance, and I shout to them "I gotta go with him."

They seem annoyed but the one at the rear yells back "well hurry up cos we gotta _go_."

I start towards it but I'm distracted by a grey Stanier pulling up. Walker spots it too and he's just as puzzled as I am.

"Hey, yo," I hear E-D alerting me, but I've already seen them. They don't have to open their mouths for me to realise they're a$$holes. One of them has his arm in a cast already. Must be a slow learner. "Who's in charge here," he demands.

 _I'm in charge you slimy toerag weasel_ I scream in my head. "I am," I call back, and I'm stepping towards him angrily because my adrenaline is in overdrive.

"Detectives Fletcher and Lewis, Mission Row. We're taking over here."

 _The f*** you are!_ "You're out of your jurisdiction, Lewis," I say through gritted teeth. "This is _Vinewood_."

Lewis looks at Fletcher, the way jocks look at their buddies to make sure they've got their back before picking a fight with a poor kid, make sure they'll pile in and throw the fight if it looks like he's in danger of being ridiculed. Fletcher at least seems to have some sense about him. His look is all _don't be a dick_. Poor Fletcher. I've had to fight that losing battle too.

"Look, _Princess,"_ says Lewis and I feel my hands bunch into fists. "This crime scene relates to a high profile investigation we've already got ongoing-"

"Then I'm sure _your_ Captain will have _no problem_ getting on the phone to _ours_ ," Eduardo interrupts him. Putting him in his place before I do something I'll regret. Thanks E-D.

Yeah, my _cholo_ partner's got under their skin. Take a look at him you a$$holes, he can kick _both_ of your b*tch a$$es.

"But until _our_ Captain tells us to stand down," I say, "the scene's _ours_." I don't add 'bitch' or even one of E-D's ' _puta_ 's' but I want to.

"So you two don't touch _nothing_ ," my partner reinforces.

Lewis turns around to stomp back to their car. Score one for the rich b*tch and the gangbanger that don't belong on the force.

But then Fletcher gets involved. "Fair enough," he argues. "But at least let us observe. We wanna know what evidence there is."

 _No, no no!_ I have to stop Eduardo before he can agree, cos I've got a bad feeling about these guys and I need to get him on the same page, so I grab his arm. He asks to be excused for a minute so I can pull him away to talk to him privately and I show him the email on Harvey's phone.

At first he doesn't get it so I have to spell it out for him. " _I'm_ Flowers!"

" _Damn_ , girl, what the _f***,"_ he exclaims.

"But I didn't send him that email," I explain quickly. He'd asked me earlier if I knew the victim and I realise suddenly that I'd not answered him. "The vic is Shaun Harvey. He used to work Homicide out of _Mission Row_ ," I say, so that he can understand my alarm at two guys from his former precinct turning up and demanding we hand over our case.

" _The_ Shaun Harvey," he asks. I realise he'd have been a uni when I was at the Academy and working nights on Despatch to pay my way through it. Of course, I didn't _need_ to work, don't _need_ to be a cop. Not financially speaking.

"I don't trust those guys," I spell out for him. I discreetly show him Shaun's phone. "I don't want them getting hold of _this_."

From the ambulance, I hear the EMT shouting at me that they've gotta go, _now_.

"Alright," E-D concedes. "Leave it with me, I'll babysit 'em, pick you up when I get done here."

I could kiss him, but I don't. I run for the ambulance as fast as I can, climb up inside and pull the door shut. The EMT bangs on the partition and the driver takes off so quick I nearly lose my footing. I find a seat and drop quickly into it.

I hear the driver on the radio to Mount Zonah, briefing them on the status of the patient and their ETA, but I'm worried that whoever shot Shaun will likely try to finish the job. Those guys turning up from Mission Row is extremely suspicious.

I feel my heart beating. I feel the pressure in my head. I know I shouldn't do this, that it's stupid.

"Can we change course," I say quietly.

"What," the driver calls back, irritably, and then I lose my temper with him for not getting the situation he's in.

"Take us to the Eclipse Medical Tower. Tell them it's on Candace Butler's account."

"Are you _crazy_ ," the EMT shouts at me.

"Just do it," I demand.

For a second or two there's just the noise of the siren, the engine, the beeping machines they've got Shaun attached to.

Then the driver picks up the radio. "Mount Zonah, stand down. Come in please, Eclipse Medical Tower."

I feel a sense of... not quite relief, Shaun's far from out of the woods, but whatever it is, it's better. Now I take my cell phone from my pocket and I dial my Doctor to have him ready to treat Shaun when we arrive. He promises me he'll have a handpicked team ready for us on our arrival, and he's true to his word.

The EMT shoots me a look as she packs up the ambulance ready for the next call, but f*** her. I follow Shaun's gurney inside as far as they'll allow me, but then I really have to stop. My own Doctor, Habib, stops me, escorts me to a waiting area and gets me a decent cup of coffee. He asks me if I want anything to eat, but I shake my head. I _should_ eat, but what with the hunt for the C-Section Killer in Las Venturas turning out to be a false lead, the flight home and now this, my stomach's tied in knots. So I sit. And I wait.

I remember I have Shaun's phone so I start scrolling through to see if there's anything helpful on there.

Immediately I find a response from Pawel Verzynski beckoning him to the Land Act Dam. The name is vaguely familiar, but maybe I need some sleep to help me nail down where I've heard it before. There's only two entries in the call history, neither are saved contacts (there are _no_ saved contacts) and one of them is withheld. I jot down the other in my notebook. I'm tempted to ring it and see what happens, but I'm woefully unprepared for that right now, mentally as well as technologically, and I don't want to spook whoever it belongs to into having it disconnected and changing their number.

I also write down Verzynski's name and email address to look into later.

I sit there I don't know how long. A million questions run through my mind, about my killer and about Shaun. When my phone rings I stare at it for a moment, trying to work out what the hell is this alien thing in my hands. Yep, I'm bone tired. E-D's calling.

"What's the news," he asks me when I pick up.

"He's in surgery," I explain, feeling pretty helpless. "Probably not going to hear anything for a while."

"Want me to get you anything," he asks.

Yeah. Get me answers on what the Hell Shaun's doing back and why he has an email from me that I never sent. Get me a solid lead on the C-section killer so I can drag that b*st*rd screaming by his scrotum all the way across Vinewood Boulevard into the precinct. Get _both_ of us the respect we deserve, that we'll never get even if we solve this case, the C-section killer case, find the missing millions and also every other case that's currently unsolved everywhere in San f***ing Andreas.

"No," I sigh. "I'm going to see if the Captain can assign some uniforms to keep an eye on him. If he says yes then I could use a ride?"

"No problem _chica_. I'm just on my way home to pick up the Voodoo-"

I can't help but smile at that. It's a heap of rust but he loves it like nothing else. Not sure if it's a car thing, a guy thing or just a Latino thing but it's important to him. He's got his Dad's old bandana hanging from the rearview mirror too, since he can't wear it himself. You can't wear gang colors if you haven't earned them. They'll kill you for that.

"-Mount Zonah okay," I hear him ask. I wonder if there's some way I can get there so he won't realise, but one, that's impossible and two, even if it was, I owe it to him to be more honest with him than that. He's the only guy in the whole department that's never judged me on my looks or my background. Oddly enough, he's the only one that's never hit on me either.

"I had 'em transfer us," I confess, and I hear his complaint as he realises what I mean.

"Not the Eclipse?"

"You can pick me up at the Bean Machine outside," I blurt out. "I'll bring you some breakfast?"

"Candy, you _know_ you're a cop, not a Samaritan?"

"I know," I agree. "Just... trust me on this one, okay?"

After he hangs up, I call the Captain. I really don't want to which is why I need to get it out of the way. He grudgingly accepts assigning a couple of uniforms and says he'll have them at Mount Zonah within the hour.

"About that," I begin. He's not happy but doesn't want to discuss it over the phone.

Doctor Habib comes out to tell me Shaun's still in surgery and that there's nothing he can really tell me yet. That's about ten minutes before the uniforms arrive. Once they're onsite, guys I recognise so I'm as sure as I can be that Shaun's safe for now, I call E-D for my ride, and go downstairs to pick up breakfast as promised, and then I take a seat outside in the early morning sunshine to wait. It's not long before I see Eduardo's Voodoo pull up.

I'd better not have it sitting outside the Eclipse too long in case they tow it or call the cops on him, which would be embarrassing, although I'm not sure whether that's for him or me. So I hurry down to him. "Hey," I call to him and hold up the bag when I get near. "Breakfast, as promised."

He reaches across and opens the passenger door for me so I can slide in. He's had it spruced up a little since I was last in it, full valet, new Mexican blankets on the seats. He's really trying, so I pay him a couple of compliments about them.

I don't know if I wanna fall asleep, scream or vomit, so I turn his radio on. He's got it on East Los FM again, but I recognise the song. We have our own little private in-joke about it, and we both spend a couple minutes enjoying singing our own misheard lyrics over the chorus.

Doing this job, you need these little moments. E-D gets it and so do I. After the song finishes, he scrolls through stations, hoping to miraculously find Playback FM has suddenly started broadcasting again. We're on Vinewood Boulevard so we settle on VBR.

"Feel better after your shower," I ask him.

"Yeah. Want me to run you home now?"

"No," I say. "I might shower at the station, if there's not too many other girls about."

You'd think women in a male-dominated arena would be supportive of each other. And you'd be wrong. Apparently I have breasts deliberately to sabotage their careers, like I can help the way I turned out, and it's my fault that I'm younger than them. They say prettier too, but what the hell, I make an effort with my appearance, they don't. Or rather they go to great lengths to look like they've not made an effort and as an unfortunate side-effect they've gone and made themselves masculine.

"How'd it go," he asks.

I shrug. "No change from when we talked."

We ride in silence for a block or so. "So are you gonna sort out that date with that crime scene tech you were talking to," I ask, breaking it.

"Not till _this_ is wrapped up," he says. "She was at the Dam."

"Sh*t, I didn't recognise her," I say and we both laugh. Another of our private in-jokes.

"What about you and that Doctor," he asks me.

"Nah," I say. "That was a _bad_ date."

"Damn, he seemed kind of... well, kind of a rich douche," he says.

"You don't know the half of it. We're sat having steak, he's demonstrating on it how they'd do my face lift. Like he'd already decided if I'm gonna be his girl I was having a facelift!"

"What the f***, _chica_ ," he exclaims. "What kind of a$$hole would wanna ruin you with surgery?"

"So when you gonna hook me up for some Latino passion with one of your homies," I tease. Half-tease. It's been so long, I'd probably consider it.

The meeting with Kirby was painful. Moving Shaun to the private medical facility had seemed like a good play but Kirby had pointed out that it could easily be misconstrued and affect my professional conduct.

It always makes me feel tiny, like an inch tall, and I flush bright red with humiliation when he reprimands us like that. I hate it, but E-D seems to bounce off it without it bothering him and, as always, he had my back. We're setting down at our desks to track down Verzynski when my cell rings. I check the caller display and step away to answer it.

It's Doctor Habib. "Mr. Harvey is out of surgery-"

"Is he gonna make it," I interrupt.

"It's too early to call. He lost a lot of blood," he says, hesitantly.

"Doctor," I ask, feeling my voice catch.

He's quiet for a second or two before he answers. "Mr. Harvey has a very high blood-alcohol content which is making our efforts much more difficult. Assuming he pulls through, he's going to require quite specialist treatment... if I am to assume you have a professional interest in Mr. Harvey's injury then the expense could be quite awkward for you in your standing with your superiors."

After the grilling Kirby just gave me? You're damn right it could. "I'm on my way," I sigh.

"There's not any rush at this stage," Doctor Habib starts to argue.

"I'm on my way," I stress to him.

"Okay," he sighs. "I'll meet you when you get here."

I return to E-D's desk where he's working on tracking down Verzynski. "That's the hospital. Harvey's out of surgery," I say, hoping my poker face isn't letting me down. "I'm gonna go see what he can give us. You okay bringing Verzynski in by yourself?"

"You kiddin'? I could bring _Jack Howitzer_ in by myself," he says. I'd laugh, but everyone else is laughing _at_ him so he's on his feet and arguing with them.

I get to the Eclipse and Habib meets me at the elevator, takes me to the ward where Shaun's still heavily sedated and hooked up to I don't know what. Looks like intensive care, but infinitely better equipped. Still, to see a person all wired up like that, no matter how advanced the equipment, well, it's not good. The two cops are standing guard outside his ward, but somehow I'm not feeling any more relaxed.

"What can you tell me," I ask Habib.

"Nothing you don't already know," he says, apologetically. "I told you there was no rush in coming over here-"

"He's an alcoholic," I interrupt.

"Yes," Habib agrees, uncomfortably.

"He's in custody as a suspect in an armed robbery," I say.

"I can't begin to imagine how complicated this all must be for you," Habib starts.

"Is there a way you can treat the alcoholism off the books?"

"It wouldn't be," he starts.

"I don't care whether it would be ethical," I snap. "On the one hand, he's both a victim in an attempted homicide and a suspect and a fugitive from the law. Those two things may or may not be connected and he may or may not be guilty. On the other hand, I don't trust his former Mission Row colleagues. They were on the scene awfully fast and putting a lot of pressure on trying to get the case taken from us even though it's our jurisdiction."

"And he's a friend of yours," Habib says, interrupting me this time.

"I'm not sure I'd go _that_ far," I say, but I do have _some_ sort of affinity for him.

Habib sighs. "Let me think about it. I'm sure there is a way you could _discreetly_ fund the rehabilitative element of his treatment without compromising my legal duty."

"Thanks Doctor," I say. He leaves the room and I take a seat next to Shaun's bed.

"I'm a _suspect_ ," he gasps, scaring me nearly to death.

"Jesus, Shaun-"

"I only came back to find you," he struggles.

"I know," I say. "Rest now, you've got plenty of time to tell me-"

"Someone knows," he interrupts. "Someone knows what happened and wants to silence me. Probably Ver-Verz..."

His machines start to beep as he begins to cough. Nurses and a Doctor rush in and I'm shooed from the ward, but that's okay. I gotta call E-D.

"Have you found Verzynski," I ask him when he picks up.

"No. His apartment's been done over, but there's no sign of him."

"You went _in_?"

"Probable cause," he argues. "Door was already open, busted into. No, we didn't touch anything-"

"Who's 'we'," I ask sternly.

"Walker, first responder at the Dam. He did a good job last night."

"So you took him under your wing?"

"Did you go home and change already," he asks.

"No," I snap.

"You sure, _mi güey_? Cos you've suddenly got your cranky pants on."

I have to stay silent for a moment so I don't ruin a bad mood laughing at his crack. I _won't_ let him beat me. "Where are you now," I demand. _Try_ to demand. _Damn it_.

"At a gas station round the corner while we wait for a warrant, keepin' an eye on the place in case we get lucky and he's the dumbest _pendejo_ ever."

"That probably won't fly. Listen, Shaun reckons whoever hit him was trying to silence him. He started to say something about Verzynski too. I'm not sure if he was going to tell me he's the shooter or that he might be marked too."  
"That's some margin of error."  
"Yeah... it's too early to really get anything concrete. Shaun's still in pretty rough shape."  
"So are you," he points out. "I'll update the Captain, see how he wants me to play tracking Verzynski in light of what you've said. The uni's still guardin' Harvey?  
"Yeah," I say.  
"Then get yourself home, okay? It's gonna be a while before he's fit to give you anything useful and it's been a long week for both of us."

I pull up outside my home. It seems so strange after so long away, or maybe I'm just so tired that everything feels strange. I head up the front steps and across the path to the front door with my keys in my hand, open the door and lock it behind me, then head through to the kitchen to put some coffee on. I'm just putting down the stuff from my pockets when I notice my back door has been kicked open. I draw my gun and pick up my phone, dial E-D. I'm still getting my mind around it when the intruder grabs my gun arm. In shock, I fire off a round, but then the weapon is pulled from my grasp and tossed away.

I drop my phone so that I have both fists free to put up a fight, make a left jab that connects and swing a right hook which doesn't.

My legs are kicked out from under me and my assailant grabs me, puts me down on the floor. "Where's Harvey," the intruder demands. Until now the black bandana, baseball cap and dark glasses they're wearing gave me no clues to their identity but the voice is female.

I kick up, my knee connecting with groin. The assailant rolls off in pain, and I take the opportunity to roll on top of her, aim a low punch towards the abdomen and try to rip away the disguise, but I'm punched in the face and thrown off. I'm trained, but this b*tch is _tough_.

She's already back on her feet. I scramble up to mine and grab one of the knives from the block on the work surface. I'm gonna let her make the first move. She does, grabs for my knife hand, as expected. I jump up and kick for her, making her fall backwards and now she's on her back on the floor. I drop onto her chest, leading with my knee. It's a vicious move, sure, but I'm pretty sure she can take it. It knocks the wind out of her and also she loses the cap and the shades.

"Who the f*** are you," I demand.

She lashes out with a punch which I lean out of the way of; grab her arm, push up onto my feet and twist just _so_. Her involuntary cry lets me know I've got the right spot and she obediently flips round onto her front so it doesn't break. " _Who are you_ ," I scream.

Somehow, in a small fraction of a second, so quick I've barely registered her moving before she's free, she manages to whip her body around so her arm's no longer twisted the way I want it to be and she springs up and hits me in the face with her elbow. I drop to the floor, come round a second or two later as I'm being dragged back up by my hair. She slams my head down on my work surface and demands again "where's Harvey?"

I stamp for her instep. She's anticipating it and moves her foot, then knees me in the back. Christ, that hurt... She's still pulling my hair too, so when I drop down in agony from the blow, the pressure on my scalp is intense. She pulls me back up and throws me across the kitchen, sending me crashing over and destroying my table. She's drawn her own gun now. I launch myself towards her in desperation, ram my shoulder into her chest and bend her back over my sink with the momentum and all my bodyweight. I turn on the hot tap and try with all my strength to hold her wrist under it until she screams and drops the gun, then I drag her out, swing her around by her shirt and push her into the wall. She aims a headbutt at me, but I drop down to the floor out of the way, scramble across the kitchen to my fallen firearm. When I turn to aim it at her, she's also crouched on the floor with hers aimed at me.

"Did you shoot him," I demand.

"Did _you,_ _puta_ ," she spits back at me.

"Why the f*** would _I_ shoot him," I demand, confused.

Both of us are slowly rising to our feet now, continuing the standoff. " _You_ sent him the email. He's spent the week trying to rescue you," she says.

I want to ask more but I hear keys in the front door and then it crashes open and E-D barges in, gun held before him. The woman bolts from the back door and I give chase, followed swiftly by Eduardo. I hear a motorbike firing up and turn just in time to see it blasting past my back yard out onto the street. By the time E-D and I get to the front of the house, she's gone, just a receding engine note in the wind.

"You okay," he asks, looking at me with concern.

"I'm fine," I force, and defiantly holster my weapon. He knows better, but he also knows better than to push it.

"What the hell was _that_ all about?"

"She accused me of shooting Shaun, wanted me to tell her where he is," I say.

" _What_? That's crazy!"

Understatement of the decade. Her hat and glasses are still on my kitchen floor. "Bag and tag them for me and see if we can get anything off them to _nail_ the b*tch," I instruct him venomously.

E-D insists on staying in the house while I shower and sleep. When I wake, I find him watching the news on my TV in the living room area of my house. "Hey," I greet him, then add, quietly "thanks."

He gives me that smile of his. " _No hay bronca_."

"You wanna coffee or something?"

"Or something," he says. "Got any beer?"

"No," I admit.

"'s okay. We'll pick some up on our way back."

"Huh?"

"From the hardware store," he explains. "I've botched it shut, but I gotta get that door fixed for you before I go home."

There's a place out of the city on the Senora Highway, a hardware warehouse, that he drives me out to. We don't have any radio on this time.

"What's happening with Verzynski," I ask.

"Captain's given it to the uniforms to make discreet enquiries without alerting the other precincts to what they're doin'."

"That after you told him you took your new BFF?"

He grins, awkwardly. "Yeah... he weren't too happy about that. You know, this is some _bullsh*t_ ," he says, changing the subject.

"What is," I ask.

"I mean, tell me if it's all just coincidence, but picture this. We get an anonymous tip off that our killer is in Las Venturas that turns out to be a complete fabrication. Nice little breadcrumb trail of red herrings to keep us busy barking up an empty tree for a while. While we're busy lookin' the other way, Shaun Harvey gets an email, supposedly from you, comes back to Los Santos and winds up getting shot."

"Uh huh," I say. I've been considering the same.

"And at the same time, his former Lieutenant goes missing, oh and we just happen to have the most exciting news week in years with a prison break _and_ a gang war."

"Don't forget the massacre," I add. "And now some ninja bitch breaks into my house and accuses _me_ of shooting him."

"Right," he agrees. "So it may be a coincidence but, f*** me, if we've not been played in some thing we didn't even know was goin' down."

"It's a pretty big coincidence," I admit. "But I can't see how it's all connected?"

"That's cos we don't have all the pieces," he points out. "Can't play chess without a full board."

I raise an eyebrow at him. " _You_ play _chess_?"

"Why the surprised tone, _mi güey_? My Moms taught me."

"Really?"

"Yep. See, growin' up, we only had each other to hang around with and she weren't gonna sit with me playin' video games. So we played chess. And poker," he adds.

I can't help but laugh at that. "You played _poker_ with your _Mom_? What the hell did you bet?"

"Loser did the chores the next evening. Y'know, cooking, dishes, cleaning, taking the garbage out. The whole bit."

"Did you lose much?"

" _Chica_ , I lost every damn night."

Both of us laugh. "You're right, though," I say after a while.

"I am?"

"Yeah... we _don't_ have all the pieces."

He nods slowly, thinking. "So what are we gonna do about it," he asks.

"I think we need to take a look at the evidence from the armored truck heist Harvey was accused of. And the terrorist actions that happened that day."

He looks at me for a second. "You know, that's going to send up a big red flare if we open _that_ can o' worms."

"Yep," I agree. "Ready to kick the nest?"

He smiles. Of course he is.


	15. Chapter 15

Part 15 : Pawel Verzynski

No, no, no, _no, NO_!

I hit redial. Cinnamon's phone rings through to her voicemail _again_. I nearly take out the For Sale sign outside my apartment building as I skid the sh*t-colored Intruder to a stop on the curb and storm my way inside, pushing past two a$$holes standing out front. Too late; the door to our apartment has been forced open and stands ajar.

I hurry back outside, ignoring the protestations of the a$$holes, run to the Intruder and back out onto the road as fast as I can make it move, causing a stressed-looking Mom in a Fathom FQ2 to slam on her brakes and earning myself a chorus of angry honks and yells. My phone rings as I slide the Intruder into Drive and punch it and I answer, not even looking at the display.

"Cinnamon?"

"I prefer gingerbread myself," growls Captain Jones. "Although you're leaving a taste more like sh*t."

"I'm a little busy Jones," I start.

"You smarta$$ little punk, I'll _bet_ you are. I bet you've got your hands _real_ f***ing full," he snaps.

"You're f***ing damn right I have," I yell back. "Harvey's been shot and I'm the number one f***ing suspect!"

"You _are_ the number one suspect," Jones affirms. "Jesus, Verzynski, I asked you for _discretion_ and I get a sh*t storm straight out of the f***ing _Bible_. I ask you to find me one man and learn whatever he knows about an armed robbery and now he's fighting for his life in Vinewood's f***ing custody! Gray's a$$holes have already tried to muscle in, so they're not gonna let me anywhere near the case now. Add to that the fact that the f***ing feds have gotten every precinct involved in helping them with the Bolingbroke thing except f***ing _mine_ and tell me what you think of my election prospects now?"

" _I'm not the shooter_ , Jones," I snap.

"Then you're gonna need to figure out who it was and why and you're gonna have to do it fast. For _both_ our a$$es."

"Jones, I've gotta find Cinammon," I protest. "Whoever's hit Harvey has framed me, so they're probably coming after me next, and if they know anything about me then they'll get to me through her." My mind races. The whole thing has suddenly gotten very f***ed up. "Who's assigned to the investigation," I ask after a moment.

"Even if I knew, you seeking them out is a bad idea," he says.

"Fine. Okay, well which hospital is Harvey at, can you find out that?"

"Did you not hear a word I just said?"

"Maybe if I can talk to Harvey we can figure this thing out," I argue.

He sighs heavily. "I'll make some calls," he reluctantly agrees. "I'll see what I can do for you in the meantime but keep yourself out of sight until I tell you otherwise."

He hangs up and I try Cinnamon again. The voice that answers is absolutely the last one I want to hear.

"You say you care about her so much, but you're pretty careless with her," Madrazo says mockingly.

"Where is she," I ask, fighting every natural urge I have to threaten him, instead trying to stay calm.

"She's safe."

"Thank you," I say, careful with my tone.

"You can imagine how I find the news that Shaun Harvey has been shot _upsetting_ ," he says, not sounding very upset at all.

"I didn't do it if that's what you're thinking," I state. "But I think I'm being set up for it."

While I'm talking, I'm wondering if Madrazo was the shooter, but then how would that make sense unless the money he wants has already turned up?

"I have a place out in Blaine County where I like to do my... talking. You _remember_ it, yes?"

"I remember."

Of course I remember. It's where his goons beat me half to death right after the robbery.

"Meet me there in one hour. I'll bring Cinnamon," he adds, making my blood run cold.

The decrepit barn by the equally decrepit farmhouse is creepy enough during the daytime. Under the cover of darkness, it's downright unsettling. Just seeing it again makes my skin crawl and my chest tighten with dread.

I bring my car to a halt in front of a semi-circle of SUV's and pickup trucks that all have armed men stood at their hoods. Not intimidating _at all_. The headlights make it difficult to make out their faces in the darkness, but the carbines stand out even in the gloom.

One of the men steps forward, beckons me to follow him and leads me past the guys to the barn door, knocks twice and pulls it open for me to step inside. He shuts the door behind me and for a moment I'm in absolute darkness. Suddenly I'm blinded as the headlights of Madrazo's car fix me in full brights, and I have to put a hand up to my face to shield my eyes.

"Did you bring a weapon with you Pawel," I hear Madrazo demand. Obediently, I unholster the pistol,very carefully holding the very bottom of the grip between thumb and forefinger as I take it out and drop it to the ground. Somebody scurries past me and picks it up.

Has he bought me here just to kill me? "Where is Cinnamon," I ask, being careful to keep the edge out of my voice.

"'Where is Cinnamon'," Madrazo mocks. "Where's my _money_ Verzynski?"

"Martin, please-"

"You'd better tell me _everybody_ that you've been talking to this week, Pawel," Madrazo demands. I realise now he's got his head interrogator with him, a bald-headed Asian fellow that always wears aviator shades. He's wearing them now, even in the dark of the barn. I doubt he's an inch over five feet tall, but he's built like a brick sh*thouse and can punch through concrete. Just having him here is enough to make Madrazo's point.

But then again, just having Cinnamon is all Madrazo needs to make his point.

"I got asked to look into Harvey's reappearance by Captain Jones out of Mission Row," I admit.

"What does _he_ want," Madrazo asks.

"Same as you," I say. "He wants to know what happened to the money."

Madrazo walks around in a circle. His lackey stands unnaturally, unnervingly still off to Madrazo's left, only just visible in the glare of the car's lights. "What's _his_ interest? He's not in anyone's pocket and many of my... _rivals_... have tried to tempt him."

"He's running for City Council. Proving what happened to the money would be a boost for his campaign," I say.

"Really? Interesting," Madrazo muses, then demands "who else have you crossed paths with?"

"Other than you," I say, earning myself a sharp glare. "A couple of bully boys from Ray Gray's homicide squad. I'm not sure he-"

"Gray is a _traitor_ but he _doesn't_ have my money," Madrazo interrupts.

"He knows _something_ ," I argue.

"He's been... questioned. Same as you have." Madrazo steps right up to me now. Finally the Asian cocksucker gets to his feet, in case I should try anything against his boss.

Madrazo continues "since I got ripped off, Raymond Gray had been very open with me about all his dealings. I get tipped off every week who's undercover in my operations or which of my men have been talking too loudly. So, you see, keeping him around is mutually beneficial."

"He's scared of something," I start.

"He's scared of _me_ ," Madrazo insists.

" _Everybody's_ scared of you," I agree. "But there's something else to it."

"Suddenly you became a Detective after all," Madrazo asks mockingly. "Why don't you tell me what it is you know about Gray and how he was able to keep to himself when we asked him to tell us what he knew?"

What he knew - that's it! His pr*stitute Rosio had told me he was scared someone was watching him, that he didn't know who. _That's_ how. But I'm not letting Madrazo have that.

"Alright, fine," I sigh. "So then that just leaves a bunch of psychotic bikers and that girl you had me bring you. I'm still wondering how she fits in-"

" _Keep_ wondering," he snaps. " _Who else_?"

I have to think. Nobody really, except... "Two feds at the Prison yesterday," I say. "Jones wanted to pry into the Bolingbroke investigation."

"'Two feds'. Brilliant, Pawel, brav- _f***ing_ -o! _Names_?"

"Haines and Sanchez. I think."

Madrazo and his goon share a glance. "Did you shoot Shaun Harvey," he demands at last.

"I told you, no," I answer, more firmly than I'd meant to.

"You remember your f***ing _place_ , Verzynski," he yells. I hold up my hands apologetically.

"Martin, _please_... _Where_ is Cinnamon," I ask him, _very_ carefully.

" _Where_ is my f***ing _money_?"

"In all honesty? Cards on the table? I haven't got a clue where it is," I admit. "I don't have it, I doubt Harvey does either despite all the press he got for it. But I bet whoever the shooter is knows something."

He turns back now, looking at his goon. His goon stares at me hard for an uncomfortably long moment, but then he looks back to Madrazo and gives him a single nod.

Finally, he nods to his goon who steps into the gloom behind the headlights, to the rear door of the car. When he steps back into the light, he's guiding Cinnamon. She looks okay but she's blindfolded. I have to grit my teeth and bite my tongue; just a few seconds and I'll have her back.

Then the little punk, he scoops her hair in his hand, smells it, spanks her on the backside to get her walking forwards, towards me. I step forward to catch her, stop her tripping over on the way to me, rip the blindfold off. "Are you okay? Did they hurt you," I ask her.

"No," she admits, but she's scared. "What's going on, Pawel?"

"You have twenty four hours to find my money," Madrazo says. "Take _note_ , Pawel; twenty four hours. After that we're _done_."

I usher Cinnamon behind me, for all the good it'll do. "What do you mean, 'we're done'," I demand.

"I mean," he says, stepping up to me. "Find my f***ing money or I will f***ing _kill_ _you_."

"Alright. Fine. Can I have my gun back?"

" _Go_ , Pawel!"

I keep my gaze fixed on them as I back Cinnamon with me towards the exit. The little Asian b*st*rd smirks at me as he picks up my gun and puts it in the waistband of his pants.

I don't know what he's so happy with himself about; the f***er signed his own death warrant when he put his hands on Cinnamon.

I get us out of there and into the sh*t-colored Intruder as quick as I can. I'm crossing my fingers though as I put the key in the ignition, but Madrazo's smarter than that; if his boys have rigged the car with an explosive it'll be on a remote trigger, not the ignition. The car starts and I try to control my speed as we cruise away, ignoring every impulse in my body screaming at me to floor it.

We drive down to the main road, past the gas station where I picked up Nikki and left Conner hooked to a car battery. Across the street is a motel and, further down the road, a strip mall where I bring the Intruder to a stop and beckon Cinnamon to get out. "Pawel, what's going on," she asks me, wide-eyed.

"You heard Madrazo," I said.

"He's gonna kill you," she reminds me.

"I've got twenty four hours to stop that happening," I say.

It's too dark and we're too remote for me to start checking the car, and anyway I wouldn't even know where to start. If there _was_ a bomb, I'd probably detonate it trying to mess with it. I don't know how to hotwire a car either, so, leaning as far back as I can reach, I pop the trunk and grab the bag with my laptop out of it, check that the laptop and my own gun are still in there; the one Madrazo found on me was one I'd picked up on the way over from a pawn shop. I could've saved myself the cash and just left my gun in the car in the first place, but then Madrazo would've been suspicious about me going in unarmed.

Once I've got all my stuff I take Cinnamon's arm and guide her quickly across the parking lot to the Taco Farmer restaurant at the far side.

The girl on the door looks terminally bored, and extremely surprised and a little irritated to be getting customers at this time of the night, but whatever, the place is open twenty four hours so she gives us a couple of menus and leads us to a booth by the window.

"I'm so sorry about all this baby. This isn't how I planned on all this turning out," I say, when we're alone.

"None of this is how we planned it all turning out," she complains. "It is what it is."

"I don't want you turning tricks no more," I say. "I'll do anything. I'll flip burgers. Pour shots. Clean _toilets_. Whatever it takes so you don't have to do _that_."

"Baby," she says, softly. "We been through this-"

"You mean too much to me," I interrupt her. "I don't care about _anything_ else. I can't take it anymore. Whatever I have to do, however low people think of me, it don't matter. Long as I know you're safe."

Her eyes are wet. "It _would_ be nice not to have to wear these damn boots no more," she says after a while.

"I just need to survive this. Then we're out, we're gonna change," I say, although my voice is cracking and my eyes are stinging too. "I need your help baby. Will you help me? Please?"

"Of course I will," she breathes, and she has to look away. Then she lowers her eyes and sits back, retrieves something from the pocket in her shorts, hands it to me.

"What's this?"

"The hacker you wanted to know about," she admits. "Kanya came through with the details, that's his address."

"Thank you," I say, around the lump in my throat.

"Just don't let him know how you found him," she pleads.

I shake my head. "I won't... I just need to talk," I say.

We order coffee and I use the restaurant's payphone, first to call a cab back to Los Santos and then to call Jones. "What's the latest," I ask him.

"Still trying to find out," he says. "You keeping out of trouble?"

"Sort of."

"What's that mean?"

"Madrazo's going to kill me in less than 24 hours unless I find the money."

"Martin Madrazo? See, I knew this whole f***ing thing tied in with him."

I have the cab drop us off at the Posonby's store at the Rockford Plaza in Burton and buy her a couple of pairs of light suit trousers, a couple of expensive blouses and some flat ballet shoes. She's sceptical of the look but I convince her it's practical, it blends in and it's comfortable for if we have to run. Eventually she accepts and reluctantly changes, but there's a noticeable difference in the way she stands, the way she walks, the way she carries herself in the new clothes. I like it.

Then I take her to a motel a little further North, just on the outskirts of Downtown Vinewood and we check in paying cash for a room. Fortunately we get one with a view to the parking lot so I don't have to make myself obvious asking for one.

Yeah, I just spent all the money we had for rent, but it looks like that chapter of our lives is over with.

She's not happy about staying in the motel room, but I tell her to stay put, keep an eye on the parking lot and to slip out the back way if anyone who look like cops come sniffing around. I leave her the laptop and ask if she can work out anything from the USB sticks I've been given that might help any of this make any sense.

Before going out to see the hacker, some guy called Lester, I need to go home and get the bike. I'm still not fully up to riding it, but I can't risk the Intruder, which in any case is still at the strip mall in Blaine County and, as the bike's not actually mine, I'm hoping the cops won't have linked me to it.

I spend a while watching the place from the gas station up the street. A Latino with a beaten up old Voodoo heads inside with a young white dude. Neither are in uniform but you can tell a cop from a mile off. I make a note of the license plate number. It might come in handy later. Then I disappear deeper into Little Seoul for an hour before circling back around the block on foot. The Voodoo's moved to the gas station up the street. So I circle around again. When I get back, the Voodoo's gone, but the white dude is still there, talking to someone on his phone. As I watch, the manager comes out of the store to argue with him.

Remember kids, don't use a cellphone at a gas station. It may or may not cause an explosion, but it will _definitely_ give you ear-ache.

In any case, it's the perfect distraction I need to slip into the garage, wheel out the bike, kick it to life and ride away.

I know Cinnamon wanted me to take her with me to go see Lester, but with the clock ticking, I can't afford to play nice.

The guy's house is in El Burro Heights and sticks out like a sore thumb; it has an array of satellite dishes, it's surrounded by a chainlink fence topped with razor wire and multiple CCTV cameras watch every angle. So much for going in quiet.

I boot the front door. It takes four kicks before giving way. I catch an overweight balding guy struggling on a walking stick trying to scurry towards the back and I grab him and push him into a wall.

A metallic click stops me in my tracks and I hear a woman saying "go now and this will be the end of it."

"I'm sorry. I can't do that," I say.

"Sure you can. Turn around, one foot in front of the other, swap them over until you're outside," she says. The sarcasm is biting.

"No, see, I need Lester here to tell me what he knows about who shot Shaun Harvey."

Lester's trying to stand up now. "H-how do you know who I am," he asks.

"Lester," the woman snaps. To me she says "you won't get away with this. I've already red-flagged a team of very scary people that will find you-"

"That doesn't matter. _Shaun Harvey_ ," I reiterate.

"I... I pulled the contact details from his phone, he was going to meet a Pawel Verzynski," Lester starts.

"No," I interrupt firmly. " _I'm_ Pawel Verzynski."

Lester's face turns ashen and I sense the woman stiffen. No need to make this any more uncomfortable so now I raise my hands and take a step back. "I need your help," I admit. "I'm being framed. And it's clear you're working with Harvey so you have to know that he's still in danger too."

The woman opens her mouth to say something, but stops, lowers her gun when Lester says gently "Paige." He retrieves his walking stick and beckons for me to follow him, leads me into what would be a living room if it wasn't a computer nerd's fantasy nerve centre.

"If you're not our shooter then we're only left with one lead," he says.

"Who's that I ask," although I'm momentarily distracted by the buzzing of my phone. I check the caller ID and freeze; Captain Jones.

"Am I keeping you from something," Lester snaps.

I quickly put the phone back in my pocket. "Sorry. Who's the lead?"

"Lester," the woman, Paige, interrupts.

"Look," I say. "You two have been helping Harvey. I don't care why but I need you to help _me_ now because whoever shot him wants everyone to think _I_ did it. There's only one reason I can think of why they'd do that, and when they figure out he's not dead, they're gonna come back and finish the job."

I hear Paige sigh heavily. Lester looks like he wants to be sick. "Look, this intel is for a mutual friend of ours and Harvey's," he starts to explain.

"I don't care - _spill it_ ," I demand.

Lester shrinks away. "W-we're looking at some f-feds... an Andreas S-Sanchez..."

Sanchez! Why does _he_ keep cropping up? "Give it to me," I demand. "Everything you know."

Lester rummages through a metal shelving unit laden with junk until he finds a USB stick, plugs it into one of the computers and transfers some data to it, then pulls it out and hands it to me. "This is everything we got out of the FIB building," he says.

My phones buzzing. It's Jones again. Something's seriously up but I still need to know more.

"After all this time, why did Harvey come back," I ask.

"He received an email," Lester says. "It seemed like it might have come from an old flame of his, a Candace Butler. Seemed like she was in trouble with an undercover assignment."

"Seemed?"

"Yeah. _That_ kept us looking the wrong way," Lester goes on, sheepishly. "She was never actually undercover - she works at Vinewood as a homicide detective. Funny thing is-"

"Oh, don't tell me," I groan.

"Yeah," he says. " _She's_ the detective in charge of his case."

"Alright," I sigh. "So, if she didn't send the email, then who did? Could it be the same people that send Harvey the email from me?"

"I'm not sure because I've never been a detective, but isn't figuring that out the key to solving your case?"

"Okay, fine," I snap. "Last question. Do you know where Harvey currently is?"

"Not yet. We're still looking," Lester admits. "The ambulance was originally bound for Mount Zonah, but they called in and told them to stand down before they got there."

I give Lester my number and ask him to let me know as soon as he finds out. He says he will, but I'm not so sure, but yet again my phone starts buzzing.

I thumb on the answer icon and head out without giving Lester or Paige a thank you or anything else.

"Jesus, Verzynski, were you taking a _nap_ ," Jones thunders.

"I could ask you the same thing," I argue back. "Those feds yesterday, one of them was called Sanchez, right?"

"What about him," Jones demands.

"You ever run into him before?"

Silence.

"Jones?"

"Yeah, I saw him before," he finally, grudgingly, admits. "That's the f***er that turned up the day after the terrorist incident and told me Ericsson had turned evidence on Harvey for the truck heist."

Jesus Christ... "And you didn't think this should have come up in conversation _yesterday_?"

"I didn't know whether I _trusted_ you yesterday. And I _damn sure_ don't today. I'm trying to run for City Council and I'm directly involved with the prime suspect in an attempted f***ing _murder_ -"

"What do you _want_ , Jones," I snap.

"Lieutenant Gray," he barks back at me.

"What about him?"

"Seems I'm not the _only_ one trying to find where Vinewood's keeping Harvey. Gray's been missing for days and he's suddenly turned up asking questions at Mount Zonah. They kicked him out but I had Lewis' car bugged after your stunt the other day. Seems like he has a burner phone because he got a call and it's not showing on his Department account. He's heading towards Rockford Hills and he's not taking his time, and I'm guessing that if he hooks up with Gray it'll be the last we'll see of _either_ of 'em. I need you to interrupt, grab Gray and bring him to _me_!"

I shake my head as I stride over the bike and kick-start it. "How long ago," I yell, partially so Jones can hear me over the engine and partially because for f***'s sake!

"Five minutes, maybe more. You took your sweet time answering your damn phone!"

"Jesus, Jones, he's probably on his way out of the city by now."

"Not quite, but he's on the move. _Go_!"

Jones hangs up, but even on the bike, I'm too far out to be able to get there in time. So I put a call in to Officer Pearson from Rockford Hills.

"Hey Pearson, it's Verzynski. How are you holding up?"

"Hey Pawel! I'm good thanks, how you doing?"

"I'm okay, but I need a favor. Are you up to running a little surveillance for me?"

"After what you did for me and Bailey, no problem at all man."

I give him Lewis and Fletcher's details and promise to get to him as quick as I can.

When I get to him, he's parked in an unmarked car across the street from the Café Redemption on Portola Drive. I can see Screwis and Phlegmcher's gray Stanier parked outside on it's new wheels. I slide into the shotgun seat and Pearson says "they went in there about ten minutes ago."

"Anyone else come in since?"

"A few hipsters, nobody that looks like a cop or a player."

"Thanks," I say. "How's Bailey doing?"

"He's good. He's having to do physio for his leg, but he's moving pretty good. Hopefully he'll be back to work before too long."

We sit and watch for a few minutes and finally Lewis and Fletcher head out, followed a couple of seconds later by Gray. He's limping and walking with a crutch, and gets into the back of the Stanier.

"Alright," Pearson says, starting the engine of the unmarked car. The Stanier pulls out and he follows a few seconds later.

We're just bracing ourselves to turn on the lights and do the traffic stop procedure when all Hell breaks loose.

The Stanier is T-boned at the intersection by an enormous armored black SUV. Immediately Pearson hammers the brakes to stop the car and he and I kick open the doors, take cover behind them as we watch four men in black suits and ties alight the SUV and aim heavy calibre automatic weapons at the Stanier.

"Halt! Police," yells Pearson. Bad move. Two of them open fire in our direction, forcing the two of us to scurry towards the rear of the unmarked car as bullets shred it. Civilians who'd been attempting to duck into cover now scream and scatter in all directions.

I'm first to return fire. Pearson pops off a couple of shots while yelling into his radio for back-up. Sirens very quickly begin to sound in the distance.

The two closest guys out of the SUV are approaching us, pinning us down with automatic fire. Beyond them, I see one of them rip open the driver's door of the Stanier but then he goes down, Lewis or Fletcher having managed to pop off a good shot. His buddy opens up with his automatic and there's no further retaliation from the Stanier as Gray is dragged, struggling futilely, from the rear.

I try to pop off a couple more rounds at the guys pinning us down, but their firepower is too overwhelming; I can't get a chance to look where I'm shooting so my shots are useless.

They're retreating now, one of them still pinning us down with covering fire while the others drag Gray and their injured colleague into the SUV.

I continue to return fire while Pearson screams into his radio that the perps are on the move, but then he suddenly stops talking and drops to the ground.

"Pearson," I scream, but he's already dead, the bullet having gone through his head.

The SUV backs out of the side of the Stanier, dragging it a couple of feet before coming free, and then it roars away. I give chase on foot, firing at one of it's tyres but even though I score three direct hits it stays inflated and the hit squad drives off as nonchalantly as if I'd been throwing stones at them.

There's an anguished grunt from behind me and I hear someone screaming for help. Fletcher is knelt down, his suit covered in blood. On the asphalt lies Lewis. Fletcher is yelling "Officer down" into his radio for an ambulance, _now_.

I run over, drop to my knees on the opposite side, rip off my shirt and set about trying to help Fletcher put pressure on all the bleeding holes in Lewis' chest.

"I'm sorry Lewis," Fletcher sobs. "I'm so, so sorry."

Then the f***er gets to his feet and runs away.

Lewis gives a desperate cry and tries to reach for him. His eyes find mine and I take hold of his hand, with both of mine. It's all I can do for him as he takes his last few breaths.

The noise of the sirens is getting louder. I _have_ to _go_.


	16. Chapter 16

Part 16 – Candace Butler

I find Diaz still semi-upright but asleep on my couch, his laptop still open on his knee. After he'd helped me fix my door, he'd offered to stay and, having been assaulted in my own home, the company was welcome. I offered him my bed, but he opted for the couch.

We'd sat up together late into the night rehashing missing persons, looking for anyone who'd been missing for nearly nine months. Beyond that, we're out of ideas; the C-section killer doesn't seem to target any particular 'type' nor does he take them from certain places, or at certain times of day or night. We've got a 'shortlist' of 54 possible women. So we're no better off than when we found the first victim.

After that we spent a while talking about why Shaun was back, and why he'd been shot. It bothers me that he has an email signed from the nickname that he alone used to call me.

And another one, seemingly from Verzynski. Diaz did a little bit more digging and found out that he used to be a Detective at La Mesa. Are we looking at a whole conspiracy of crooked cops?

After a night of unsettling dreams, I head into my kitchen, take a look at my repaired back door and the mess from my fight with the b*tch that attacked me. Then I pull out some of the groceries that we bought on the way back and I start to make breakfast, bacon, hash browns, scrambled eggs and muffins. I hear Diaz stir, followed by a crash and an expletive as his laptop falls to the floor, then he comes into the kitchen. "Hey," he croaks.

"Morning," I reply and turn and smile. "Thanks for stopping last night," I say, awkwardly.

"Don't mention it," he says, waving a hand dismissively. I know he's not gonna mention it to anybody, know that he gets what a big deal it is that I needed him here. It's a dent in my armor both mentally and professionally. He nods towards the stove. "Smells good."

"Go take a seat, I'll bring it in," I say and set about turning on the coffee percolator.

When I take him his plate, he's watching the news on my television. "Jesus," he utters and I look at the screen. Eyewitness footage of a shootout yesterday evening in Rockford Hills between two guys sheltered behind an unmarked cop car, one in uniform, the other wearing a gray shirt and jeans, sporting dreadlocks even though he looks European, and a group of guys in dark glasses and black suits with automatic weapons. It's a very one-sided battle from the looks of things, the footage is very shaky and there's only a couple of seconds before whoever's filming turns away and flees.

"What the Hell," I utter.

He points, urgently, towards the screen. "That's our guy," he cries. "That's Verzynski!"

"Holy sh*t!"

"Yeah," he agrees, his face ashen. "I'd better call Kirby."

We waste no time getting showered and getting into the precinct. Kirby's waiting for us after E-D spoke to him while I was in the shower and we go straight into his office.

"The APB is out on Verzynski, but I still want _us_ to be the guys that bring him in if possible, because if we _don't_ we'll lose him to IAD," he says, then takes a deep breath. "Now, what the _f***_ is going on?"

"Butler and I have been thinking about this all night," E-D starts.

"Oh yeah," Kirby asks slyly, interrupting us with an eyebrow raised.

"Whatever this is it's bigger than Harvey," I go on, ignoring Kirby's suggestion. "Everything that's happened this week, if it's all somehow connected-"

"That's a big 'if'," Kirby interrupts, again.

"Well, _if_ it's all connected, then we're looking at conspiracy and corruption, at _least_ up to Lieutenant Gray. If not even further," I finish.

"Are you two sure you're ready to open _that_ can of worms," Kirby asks us with the full weight of the seriousness of my assertion in his voice. "I guarantee the both of you it won't be _my_ career on the block, but it could well be the end of _yours,_ " he warns.

I look at E-D. He looks at me. "We're ready," he affirms and both of us meet Kirby's eye. He nods, sighs heavily.

"Alright. I'll back you as much as I can, but you need to hurry up and get me something _solid_. What do you need?"

"Clearance to pull the evidence on the truck heist Harvey's accused of," I say.

"And whatever we have on the terror attacks," E-D adds.

"You're diving right into some very deep, very shark infested waters," Kirby grimaces, but he picks up his phone and makes the call to Property Division.

"Okay, it'll take them a couple hours to pull what you need," he says when he finishes the call. "What else?"

E-D pipes up. "Have we gotten anything off Harvey's phone?"

"No," Kirby replies. "There's only one number in the memory and it isn't listed. The phone companies can't tell us anything either. We could ring it, but if we blow it then that lead's blown, _forever_. So that's a last resort. Anything else?"

"I need to look at some mug shots," I say.

"What for?"

"I got assaulted in my home last night," I admit. "I wanna know what clubs run biker b*tches."

A half hour later, I'm rifling through mostly prison photos of butch looking women. Biker clubs in Los Santos are a dime a dozen, but less than half of 'em allow lady bikers. That still leaves me with a huge pile of possibilities though.

The one I'm looking for isn't _the_ most feminine beauty in all of Los Santos (that would be yours truly, thank you very much x) but compared to _this_ collection she'd stand out as the Prom Queen. Unfortunately for me, it doesn't look like the LSPD has anything on her.

While I'm doing that, E-D's making a list of all the Weazel News headlines from the past week, writing them down on yellow sticky notes and laying them gently on the desk. The detectives' hall is quiet today, most of our colleagues making themselves feel important sucking up to the Feds on their Bolingbroke investigation. It's quiet, but it means all the boards we'd normally be able to lay out our evidence on are taken up, so we're having to make use of a large sheet of paper and sticky notes.

I take a glance at his labels. They read 'Harvey returns', 'Harvey shot', 'Lt Gray vanishes', 'Popov Killed', 'Paleto Massacre', 'Bolingbroke'. 'Shootout at Sandy Shores'. 'Shootout at Rockford'.

There's one that says 'Verzynski?'. And one that says 'Candy attacked'. I watch as he sticks them in a chronological order to our sheet of paper. Some of them overlap, particularly the 'Paleto Massacre', 'Popov Killing' and 'Shootout at Sandy Shores' notes. He shakes his head, baffled, and inside I feel the same frustration.

I start on a new album of mug shots while he gets on the phone to La Mesa where Verzynski used to work and asks for a list of everyone Verzynski used to work with. He asks whether Verzynski may still have some friends on the force and is told, in the bluntest of terms, that Pawel Verzynski alienated everyone he worked with except his former supervisor John Sykes, who's since retired.

Then he puts in a call to Rockford Hills to see what he can find out about the cop that died at the scene, the one Verzynski had fought alongside, Officer Carl Pearson. Apparently they were involved in a robbery a few nights ago and his partner, Officer Kevin Bailey is currently recovering from a GSW at Pillbox Hill hospital. "Why's he at Pillbox Hill, why not Mount Zonah," I hear him ask. Turns out the robbery took place outside their jurisdiction area.

Care to guess where? Yep, Mission Row.

After relaying to me what he's found out, he says "I'mma try and see Bailey before Internal Affairs get to him. You wanna come along?"

I think about it for a moment but I answer "No. I'm gonna pick up the evidence from Property Division and get to work on that. I'll check on Shaun while I'm out," I add.

He gives me that look that he gives me when he's trying to be serious. "Careful you can't be accused of gettin' too close to him, _chica_ ," E-D warns.

"I know," I say. "It'll be fine. Why don't you take your new BFF?"

"What, Walker? I don't want him thinkin' I wanna ask him on a _date_..."

It takes me a half hour to drive over to the Property Division facility that services Mission Row and La Mesa. I have to sign a trio of documents before two cardboard boxes are released. One weighs nothing and when I open it, there's nothing but a single slip of paper folded inside a ziplock bag. The other is heavy and filled with various metal fragments, a few wires, all the recovered evidence of a series of pipe bombs.

I can't see what good either will be, but police work is all about the details so I take them one by one out to my car and drive back to the office to waste the rest of the morning sifting with one of the lab techs through the debris.

"Whoever's packed them hasn't done a thorough job," the tech groans.

"What do you mean," I ask.

"Well, there's a protocol. The bombs should have been reconstructed to see if they could tell us anything about their maker. When the evidence is packaged, components from each device should be together. Look at this mess. It's like the reconstruction wasn't even attempted."

"Well, what the hell does that mean," I ask, although I already feel the cold grip of dread from what I suspect the answer to be.

"I don't like to speculate," the tech says in a tone of voice that confirms he's thinking what I'm thinking.

"What about the piece of paper," I ask.

"Point zero zero three five inch caliper, fifty pound per cubic foot density, so not the cheapest of the cheap but definitely lower end of the price spectrum, standard 8 and a half by 11 inch printer paper," he starts.

"What does it _say_ ," I interrupt.

"It appears to be a single page confession, signed by a Joseph Ericsson, implicating Shaun Harvey and Shaun Harvey alone in a plot to foil a robbery in order to steal the take for himself. The narrative is suspiciously forced."

"Like it was coerced?"

"Like it was written by a lawyer pretending to be writing something from him," he says.

Ericsson was Shaun's partner. Thought himself a pretty smooth operator, a definite man's man. Not quite an a$$hole, but not far off.

The day after the incident, Captain Jones had gathered everybody at Mission Row together and told us about Ericsson's testimony. I'd long since been suspicious about him apparently turning evidence against Shaun and then disappearing into witness protection, and this does nothing to allay my concerns. Quite the opposite in fact.

I put a call in to E-D. "Diaz," he answers.

"Hey," I say. "How's it going?"

"Interesting," he says. "I managed to get a couple minutes with Bailey before IAD forced me out of his ward. He said Verzynski saved his and his partner's lives the other night."

"What?"

"I only got part of the story, but he says they were attacked, locked in the trunk of their own car and then dumped naked on Grove Street. By a woman."

"Oh, sh*t," I gasp. "The same woman who..."

"Maybe," he says. "He didn't get a good look at her, but he says he and his partner were minutes away from being lynched when Verzynski showed up and drove 'em to Mission Row."

"That precinct keeps cropping up," I say.

"Don't it though," he agrees. "There's another cop languishing here missing some toes, but he won't talk to me. I managed to get his name though, Curtis Chandler. Would you mind checking if he's from our new favourite station?"

"Sure, I'll look him up and send you a text. What's your plan?"

"Pay a visit to retired Lieutenant John Sykes. He's playing golf today I'm told."

"Okay, but don't let those stuck-up a$$holes give you any sh*t. Golf folks are a bunch of pretentious dicks."

"Oh, you've met them?"

"Of course I have, did you forget I'm a blue blood?"

"Don't put yourself down," he tells me. "So what have _you_ got?" I fill him in. He's quiet when I finish.

"E-D?"

"We're missing some pieces. Like I said, we don't have the full chess board."

I'm about to head out and go see if Shaun's ready to answer some questions at the hospital when I'm collared by Detective Charlotte Dickinson, a particularly dour woman that I go out of my way to avoid. She's got a smug smirk on her face that means I'm probably in trouble and makes me want to punch her.

"Captain Kirby wants you in his office. Now," she confirms.

I knock on Kirby's door. "Come in," he barks and I open it to find him sat with a Mexican guy in a fed suit. "Sit down, Butler. Where's Diaz," he asks.

"I don't know Sir. He went out to-"

He waves a hand to silence me. "Whatever. Sit." I do. "This is Agent Sanchez from the Los Santos FIB office."

"You signed out some evidence this morning," Sanchez interrupts. "I need you to turn that over to me."

I look to Kirby, but Sanchez isn't finished, is unfolding an official document. "Here is the Warrant," he says.

"Where is it, Butler," Kirby asks.

"It's downstairs, Sir," I admit, quietly. "W-with tech s-services..." Damn it, if only E-D was here.

"I appreciate your efforts, but this case pertains to an ongoing, high-level FIB investigation," Sanchez says, leaning towards me. "So I need to ask you to cease and desist digging into the 2008 incident, okay?"

I don't realise he's waiting for an answer until Kirby growls "Butler?"

"Okay," I agree.

"Good girl," Sanchez says.

Good _girl_? Okay, now I'm angry you sanctimonious mother***er. Kirby sees it and shoots me a look so I bite it back, look at the floor, let him think my anger is further humiliation. "One more thing, where is Shaun Harvey now?"

"Mount Zonah," Kirby says, before I can even begin trying to think about how to answer.

Sanchez waves a finger at him in thanks. "I'll be in touch," Sanchez tells Kirby. "Keep up the great work you're doing on the Bolingbroke escape."

"I'll have Detective Dickinson take you down to the lab," says Kirby. He and Sanchez leave the office.

Kirby returns a minute later and closes the door, just as I'm psyching myself to get up and storm out.

"Hang on Candace," he says, softly now. "Please sit down."

I do. Feeling my eyes burning like a stupid cheerleader who's just split up with her stupid jock boyfriend. "Are you okay," he asks.

"Don't," I snap, and he sinks back, holding up his palms in surrender.

"I think it's clear what's happening here," Kirby says. I raise my eyes to meet his. "We're getting f*cked," he continues. "Which means, you were right."

The sudden change in emotion throws me, leaves me feeling totally lost. F***'s sake, what am I, sixteen?

"Where's Diaz," Kirby asks me now.

"He went to Pillbox Hill Medical Centre to try and talk to Officer Bailey," I say.

"Who the f***'s Officer Bailey?"

"Pearson's partner," I explain. "He's the officer that was found dead with Detective Lewis from Mission Row. The eyewitness video on the news showed him fighting side by side with Pawel Verzynski."

"Lewis the one who turned up at the Dam and demanded you hand over the case," he asks. Rhetorically, but I nod anyway. "Okay," he continues. "Any closer to finding Verzynski?"

"Not yet. He's on his way to talk to John Sykes, Verzynski's former Lieutenant. But Bailey says Verzynski saved his and his partner's lives. They got dumped naked on Grove Street by some tough woman, Verzynski rescued 'em and drove 'em back to Mission Row."

"I saw the news this morning," he says. "Did you see what Verzynski went up against? That's some serious firepower."

"I know. Have we got any intel on it?"

"Nope. IAD's got it locked up tight," says Kirby. "This woman? She the same one that broke into your pad?"

"I don't know," I admit.

"Alright. Anything else?"

"Yeah, there's another cop there with a GSW to his foot. Curtis Chandler. Diaz asked me to find out if he's based at Mission Row too."

"I bet he is," Kirby frowns. "Did you find anything out from the evidence?"

"Yeah," I say. "The lab guy said the explosives should have been reassembled, and components from each device packed together, but it was still like a brand new construction set. If I were a cynic I'd think the whole deal about what happened in 2008 is all one big cover-up."

"You said you didn't think Shaun ripped off the armored truck?"

"I don't," I say, firmly.

"Then we need to prove it," he says. "Try and calm all this sh*t down because the press is going apesh*t." Kirby rests his head on his palm and shakes it. Sighs. "I think we're going to have to go pay Captain Jones a little visit," he says.


	17. Chapter 17

Part 17 : Candace Butler

"Good work, Butler," taunts Keaton as I walk out of Kirby's office.

"Thank you Detective Keaton," I smile at him sweetly, then put a finger to the side of my nose. "You've got a little bit of brown, just here."

He starts to say something smart-a$$ed back to me but I shush him harshly. We have a TV mounted on the wall overlooking the detectives' hall set to a local 24 hour news channel and it's just caught my attention, showing some more footage of the shootout in Rockford Hills yesterday.

From this angle, Verzynski and the dead Officer, Pearson, are shown working together against a very heavily armed outfit working out of an enormous, military-grade armored SUV that's T-boned a car without getting so much as a dent itself. Keaton tries to get my attention but one of the other cops shushes him again and the four of us currently in the hall, soon joined by Kirby, continue to watch the screen as two of the men from the SUV approach the car. One is shot and falls to the ground, eliciting an angry burst of fire from his partner. Then they drag a struggling guy from the back of the car.

He's dishevelled and one of his knees is bandaged, in fact he has a crutch that he's trying to use to ward off his apparent kidnapper, but even with the shaky, low-res footage I can see enough to know who I'm looking at; Lieutenant Raymond Gray.

"Butler, with me," Kirby instructs firmly and the two of us hurry to his car.

"Did you see the state of him," I say, referring to Lieutenant Gray. Kirby's lip curls into a tight grimace as he drives. "Diaz is right," I go on. "We don't have the full chess board."

"Diaz plays _chess,_ " Kirby asks, then shakes his head, the scowl returning. "Never mind. Let's go over everything we know. I don't wanna miss anything when we confront this Jones b*st*rd."

"Okay," I start. "We know Harvey was lured to the Dam with an email from Pawel Verzynski-"

"I mean _before_ that," Kirby interrupts. "But where are we with Verzynski?"

"Diaz is still working on it. Former detective from La Mesa. Went private for a while but his licenses have expired and he's not filed to renew them yet."

"Any connection to Jones?"

"Not that we know of, but I'll ask him."

Kirby continues while I send the text message to E-D. "So Harvey allegedly takes out a heist crew who just happen to have hit an armored truck on the same day as a city-wide terror incident. You've got, or had, a box full of recovered bomb fragments that haven't been pieced back together, even though nobody ever claimed responsibility for the bombings. Harvey ever demonstrate a knowledge of explosives?"

"Harvey never demonstrated a knowledge of anything except liquor and how to sneak it while he was supposed to be on the clock." Harsh, I guess, but true.

"He ever strike you as the kind of guy that'd do such a thing?"

"No," I say, thinking. "He was pretty loyal to the Lieutenant who's always been a slimeball, but I never thought he'd do anything so cold as that. He always seemed... nice. Kind of sad."

"Okay. Not to doubt your impeccable judgement of character, but since he reappeared, Lieutenant Gray has disappeared only to show up looking noticeably roughed up and there's been a series of violent incidents across the city which I'm starting to think you might be right about being connected. That's not looking too good for your boy."

"Look," I sigh. "I never really _knew_ him. I just know he was the only one who was nice to me while I was working despatch."

"Hmmm, I think he might've been sweet on you," Kirby says. "What I need to know is whether his sentiment is mutual? Because him being at the Eclipse Medical Tower on your account could _still_ be a thorn that unpicks this case."

"I don't know," I admit, quietly.

We get to the Mission Row precinct. Normally the place is like a hive of activity, a busy police station right in the beating heart of downtown Los Santos, but today you can feel the death of Detective Lewis hanging heavy in the air. Kirby introduces himself to the Desk Sergeant and asks if Jones is free. A minute or so later, Captain Jones emerges from his office, solemnly shakes hands with Kirby, then myself when Kirby introduces me to him, looking at me like he recognises but can't quite place me. On the one hand, I'm a little offended, but then again it might help keep him on his toes. Jones invites us into his office, shutting and locking the door behind us. I notice a couple of certificates on the wall. "Police Brutality Diploma?"

He grins at me. "Yeah, the liberals always get a kick outta that. Sit down, please. What can I do for the superstars of the LSPD's Vinewood division?"

"We're following up on Shaun Harvey. You remember you called me about the case the other day?"

"Oh yeah, sure," Jones says. "I don't really know what I can tell you-"

"You said you thought Harvey was involved in the disappearance of Raymond Gray. He's the Lieutenant in charge of your Homicide squad, isn't he? Harvey used to work for him?"

"Yeah," Jones starts, squirming.

"But then Gray turned up yesterday at the shooting in Rockwood," Kirby continues. "Grabbed out of the car by a crew just after Detective Lewis was murdered. Never good to lose one of your own. You have the sympathy of myself and everyone at Vinewood."

"Thank you. Yeah, Lewis was-"

"How does Pawel Verzynski fit in," Kirby interrupts.

"What?"

"Well, we saw him on the news. Verzynski was fighting side by side with the officer from Rockwood Hills that was killed, Officer Pearson?"

My phone buzzes. It's a text from E-D: _'I'm at the golf club. Just being escorted over to Sykes.'_

While I'm reading that, Jones is saying "I'm not sure what Verzynski's interest is? I thought he was a suspect from the APB you guys put out?"

"Not necessarily, but he is a person of interest," I say.

"Oh."

"Why don't you tell us about Harvey before that day," Kirby invites.

Jones tightens and then loosens his tie. "To be honest, Gray handled them. I let the Lieutenants run their sections and they reported to me. I hardly knew _any_ of the homicide guys, or any of the others."

"But it was _you_ that put it to the press that Harvey had stolen the truck," Kirby says.

"Yeah, I had evidence bought to me," Jones says, defensively. "What are you getting at?"

"Harvey, and Harvey alone, that's what you said at the press conference," Kirby asks him. "Only this happened on the same day bombs go off all over Los Santos-"

"Those bombs were a decoy," Jones cuts in. Not exactly with a raised voice, but it's clear Kirby's already got him riled. "The original heist crew, _they_ planned that, _they_ hit the truck while everybody else was looking the other way. You remember, we found their bodies piled up under the Olympic Freeway, right where Harvey had his roadblock."

"You ever manage to ID those bodies," Kirby asks.

"No, uh, they had nothing on 'em and none of 'em were in the system..."

"But you knew the bombs were theirs even though your forensics made no attempt to put them back together?"

Jones gets to his feet now, walks around and leans over Kirby's chair. "Alright, why don't we just get it out in the open exactly what it is you want to accuse me of?"

I start to stand. Kirby extends a hand, halting me. At the same time, my phone buzzes again.

"You're a political animal," Kirby starts. "I get it. Perception is important to you. There's a dirty cop on your watch, that doesn't help your voter appeal. But you put that dirty cop away, clean up your house, well, that changes things, doesn't it?"

"Kirby," I ask, eyes glued to the screen of my phone, but now both of them are too fired up to pay me any attention.

Jones stands straight. "Now you listen to me, you sanctimonious son of a b*tch, whether I do or do not have a _political_ ambition is _irrelevant_. I have a former detective turned fugitive, missing for five years, and now suddenly back in town. I'm a _cop_ damn it! I want him _arrested_."

"Kirby," I try again, louder, but the testosterone's got a hold of the pair of them.

Kirby takes the opening to stand up himself. Jones might be the bigger built of the two men, but Kirby's just as tall. "But _you_ want to be the one that does it, don't you Jones? Tie up the whole sorry episode in one nice, neat little bow. That's why there's been no APB, no shared intelligence. That's called a 'cover-up' and makes me wonder what else might crawl out of the woodwork when we start digging."

"Captain," I shout, and finally both of them glare at me. I turn my phone around so Kirby can read E-D's text.

"Son of a bitch," Kirby breathes. Jones stands frozen, aware that the dynamic has suddenly shifted, but not how. Now Kirby takes my phone from me and shows him what Diaz sent.

 _'Sykes says Cpt Jones forced Verzynski out of the Dept a cpl weeks after the truck thing. It's Mission Row, again. Did you find out about Chandler?'_

"Who is Chandler," Kirby asks.

"Diaz found him in hospital," I start.

"He's one of Gray's boys. Homicide. Got his foot shot off the night Harvey reappeared," Jones quietly admits. Now he goes back to his side of the desk and retrieves a bottle of Scotch and a single glass. Fills a shot and throws it back, then pours another.

"Get talking, Jones. _Now_ ," Kirby demands in a quiet voice. Kirby can shout and rail all day, but it's when he's quiet that you're _really_ in trouble.

"Verzynski's been working for me," he admits. "Private investigation. The official line was, like you said, neat, tidy, all nice and convenient. Then that loser Harvey has the gall to swan right back through the _airport_ , you believe that?"

"So why didn't the cops at LSX grab him and have done with it?"

"Because the Captain there's an old buddy of mine, hell, I got him the promotion. He knew Harvey was one of mine and wanted to know how I wanted to handle it."

"And by 'handle it', you mean bring in an outside contractor that doesn't even have a valid _license_ ," Kirby spits.

"I've suspected Raymond Gray for years," Jones argues angrily. "Can't _prove_ anything, don't _wanna_ prove anything. A bent cop, okay, that happens. A bent _Lieutenant_? My political career really _is_ screwed!"

Kirby nods slowly, considering. "So how do we get from that to all hell breaking loose in under a week?"

"Look; Verzynski, even when he was a cop, he had a... reputation."

"You mean he's a known f***ing maniac?"

"He has a certain way of doing things," Jones counters. "I specifically told him not to make a God damn _mess_."

"A mess like trying to _kill_ Harvey?"

Jones shakes his head. "No," he snaps. "He was set up for that."

Kirby tilts his head thoughtfully. "So you don't trust Gray. Are you telling me, by extension, you don't trust any of your _other_ cops either?"

"After the escapade with the truck, I tried to investigate. Tried to play hardball without alerting the f***ing IAD. Thing is, almost _everybody_ has done at least one favor for Gray," Jones explains. "Most cases, it don't even seem like anything. Go get a coffee at a certain time while he takes over your watch. Drop this off at _x_ location while you're on your way someplace. It's only when he slips you a generous _thank you_ , you start to wonder, but then what the hey, we can all use a little bonus, right? And 'where's the harm, really,' you say. Until _I_ start asking questions and realise near enough _everyone_ has done one of these little _favors_." Jones stops, throws back what's left of his second shot, pours himself a third. "So Harvey comes back to Los Santos, and I've got to wonder, you've got the money, why the Hell would you return to the scene of the crime?"

"So you hire a lunatic to rip up half of Los Santos to find out?"

"No," Jones protests, through gritted teeth. "I _asked_ an independent detective known for his _uncompromising_ nature to bring Harvey to _me_. That's _all_."

"That's all," Kirby says, nodding, as he walks around past me to the side of Jones' desk. Picks up the bottle of Scotch. "But that's _not_ all, is it Jones? In the space of a week, Weazel News has had more real excitement to report on than they normally get in a whole semester."

"Who's pulling Gray's strings," I ask.

Jones looks at me, still unsure where he recognises me from. It's not a pleasant look. "I don't know. Used to be I suspected Martin Madrazo, but I'm not so sure anymore."

"The Cartel boss masquerading as a tycoon? _Wonderful_ ," Kirby explodes.

"So Gray disappears. Then what," I interrupt.

"Lewis and Fletcher were immediately hell-bent on finding him. Harvey went to see him directly, Verzynski for some reason went to question Chandler at the hospital, somehow found out he'd gotten his foot shot and gave _them_ a beating in the process, so already they've got a bead on the two people I absolutely do not want them finding."

I remember Lewis' cast. For a moment, I'm starting to like Verzynski, but then I remember Lewis is on a slab now and a stab of guilt silences me, giving Kirby an opening.

"So in one week, your private investigation gets a Lieutenant kidnapped, two cops killed, two more in the hospital? I don't even want to _know_ how much of the bodycount this past week ties directly to you." Jones opens his mouth to argue, but Kirby cuts him off. "Where is Verzynski now?"

"I don't know," Jones starts. Kirby's still holding the bottle and now he flips it in his hand so that he's holding the neck and smashes it on Jones' desk.

" _Where is he_ ," Kirby demands, as I spring uncertainly to my feet.

" _I don't know_ ," Jones screams back as outside cops start shaking the lever and pounding on the door. "I don't know," Jones snaps again. "After yesterday he went to ground, he won't tell me where he is. He's even disconnected his cellphone."

Kirby takes an angry step towards Jones, who flinches backwards.

"Captain," I start.

"Who shot Harvey," Kirby demands.

"I don't know," Jones snarls.

" _Captain_ ," I insist.

"You better tell me something Jones, or so help me," Kirby growls.

"Alright, I've had it with your judgement you self-righteous asshole," Jones argues back and now they square up to each other.

I hitch up my jacket and my blouse and start unbuttoning my pants. That stops them in their tracks and both men demand, confused and outraged, what the hell I think I'm doing. "There's so much testosterone flowing in here, I need to check I'm not growing a dick," I snap.

Kirby and Jones stare at me for a second more, and then Kirby turns away, striding for the door. "Out of my way," he barks at the assembled staff and cops stood out and they part for him uncertainly. "Butler, zip yourself up and let's _go_ ," he calls back as he strides for the exit.

"One more thing," I say to Jones, and from behind me I hear Kirby's pounding footsteps stop. "You came right out and pinned the whole truck heist on Harvey, but you never went through the evidence and proved it? Why?"

I'm aware of Kirby coming back up behind me while Jones stares at me with a look of mixed disgust and confusion, and then, finally, he places me. " _Candace_ Butler," he says slowly.

"Answer my question, damn it," I demand.

Jones nods slowly. "Alright," he agrees. "Because some _Fed_ turned up in my office and _told_ me it was Harvey." He shoots a look at Kirby and adds "Agent Sanchez. Are _you_ gonna question a Fed at his word?"

" _That_ Fed," Kirby replies. "You're damn right I am."

Kirby rarely drops below 70 all the way back to Vinewood even though we're in the middle of the city. "I don't get it, what's Sanchez's stake in all this," I'd asked when we'd first got in the car.

"You tell _me_ , Detective," he answered angrily, and I didn't say another word the rest of the drive.

"What's your plan," he asked me as he pulled up outside the Vinewood station.

"Check in with Diaz and the hunt for Verzynski," I say. "But I need to see if Shaun can explain what the Hell Sanchez has to do with anything."

"Any dirt on Agent Sanchez you find, you get it straight to me. _Nobody_ comes into my precinct and fucks with my cops."

"Yes Captain," I answer, uncomfortably.

"Watch your ass," he warns. I nod and get out, go straight to my own car, calling E-D while I walk.

"Hey yo, you seen Walker," he asks me. "I can't get a hold of him."

"I'm not passing any notes on. You tell him you fancy him yourself."

"Ha ha. Ha," he says, sarcastically. "What have you found out?"

I tell him all about what happened Sanchez slapping a cease and desist on us looking at the old evidence and with Kirby and Jones at Mission Row.

"Jesus," he says when I'm done. "So what do we do now?"

"Keep looking for Verzynski. He's still a person of interest regardless of whether he is or isn't a suspect. I'm gonna go see if Shaun's ready to answer some questions and then I'll hook up with you."

"Alright _ésa, hasta la vista_ ," E-D says and signs off.

The day's events are running riot in my head as I drive West to the Eclipse, and I'm still planning out how I'm going to play it with Shaun as I get into the elevator and press for his floor. The doors are nearly closed when someone sticks their arm between them and it makes me jump. A large African-American in a tan suit steps in and presses for a floor two below mine, followed by a medium sized blonde white guy going a little higher up. Now I try not to be judgemental and I know I've got training but I'm still alert in these situations. We ride in silence, neither man looking at or acknowledging the other or me. When the doors open, tan suit strides out without a backwards glance.

Now I look across at the white guy. He catches me out of the corner of his eye, turns and says "hey," with a small smile, but then turns away. The doors open at my floor and I step out, past him and head to Shaun's ward where two uniformed cops are still on guard. Different cops to yesterday but still both guys I recognise. "Hi boys. Any action," I ask as I approach.

"Hey Butler," greets one. "Nah, all been quiet since we came on just before ten."

"Thanks," I say. "You wanna go grab a coffee or something while I keep an eye on him for a few minutes?"

The two cops look at each other. "You go, I'll stay put," says the one that greeted me. Billings, his name is.

"Alright, you two want anything," the other cop, Shelling, asks us. Billings asks for a hot chocolate. I tell Shelling I'm good and go into Shaun's ward.

"You're back," he says. He's slightly more lucid than he was yesterday but he's still wired up pretty good.

"How are you feeling," I ask.

"Like a pig in a cage, on antibiotics," he groans.

"Think you're ready to answer some questions?"

I get a strained attempt at his grin. "Depends what you're gonna ask me. Should I have a lawyer present?"

"We're currently searching for Pawel Verzynski. Is he the one who shot you?"

Shaun grimaces, struggling to sit up and I have to put my hand on his chest and talk him out of it. When he's settled back down, he says "I dunno. I doubt it, but..."

"But what," I ask.

But did it suddenly get quiet? Harvey's looking towards the door so I can tell he's thinking what I'm thinking.

"Billings," I call, carefully, drawing my sidearm. No reply. I get to my feet and edge cautiously to the door. Billings has his gun drawn and is standing ready to fire, sweeping both sides of the corridor. He reaches around himself with his left hand to beckon me to stay back, so I remain in the cover of the door with my own gun ready, try to control my breathing. Pass the elevators and come to a junction; can't see or hear anything in either direction.

From behind me, the far side of the corridor, past Shaun's ward, I hear the distant ding of an elevator. Now Billings turns around and sprints towards it and I come out of cover and follow to back him up. Up ahead, two men in suits and balaclavas step out of the elevator. Both are holding firearms. Billings and I bring our guns to bear on them and he barks "LSPD, put your guns on the ground."

Instead, they raise their weapons towards us and open fire. Billings has no time to get to cover and is cut down. I scurry backwards in shock, popping off a couple of wild shots as I scramble backwards.

Damn it, Candace, this is _not_ how you were trained, I scold myself, but I've been caught off-guard; their guns looked like semi-automatic pistols, but they're firing automatically. How is that possible? I'm retreating back to Shaun's ward as alarms begin to wail but I still hear the door from the stairwell beyond, halfway between the ward and the elevators I come up on. Emerging through it, both now in balaclavas, are the men I'd rode up with, armed with the same automatic pistols. I duck into the ward where Shaun is frantically ripping tubes out of himself so he can roll off the bed as they fire two bursts of automatic fire in my direction. I force the doors shut, lock them and hurry over to try and help Shaun get into cover.

The door lock doesn't stand up to the tan suit guy at all. All he has to give it is one kick. I raise my weapon and fire off another couple of rounds to buy Shaun half a second. It's enough. He pulls out another tube and falls from the bed onto the floor. Once he's off the bed I push it over to give us a little bit of cover to duck behind.

Beyond the ward, I hear another elevator ding, just as tan suit and the blonde guy are firing overhead to keep me and Harvey pinned behind the bed while they advance into the room. Then there's two loud shots that elicit surprised curses from the hit squad. I take the chance to pop up and fire a couple of rounds of my own and the men separate.

Advancing towards us with two heavy-calibre handguns is the woman that attacked me in my home. At first I think she's there for me and raise my gun in her direction, but she's concentrating her fire on the four guys in suits and balaclavas. While they're retreating, she hurries between them through into the ward.

"LSPD, on the ground," I hear Shelling demand from beyond where Billings' body lies and then there's another exchange of fire.

"You get away from him," I yell to the woman, but Harvey seems to recognise her, seems glad to see her as she crouches down with us. "Don't even think about leaving," I demand, but then Shelling cries out in anguish, injured.

No choice, I can't let him die too. "Stay there," I demand and hurry off to back Shelling up. He's still putting up a fight, but his shots are haphazard and too long apart to hold them off for long. I grab the gun Billings dropped in addition to my own and peel off three shots from each before twisting to press myself against the wall. The four suited killers duck down out of the way and turn their attention on me, then four heavier shots whizz past me from behind. I drop to a crouch and look behind. The woman is backing away with Harvey behind her, heading towards the elevator.

"Damn it, I told you to stay put," I cry.

"Sorry Flowers," Harvey wheezes. "If I die in here, the truth dies with me."

Finally backup arrives. Six hospital security guys burst through from the stairwell and hurry towards me to engage the balaclava-clad kill-team. One of them hits the elevator button as they fight back, pinning down the hospital security and Shelling on the other side, until the doors slide open and they fall in. Finally I'm clear to move, but Harvey and the woman are already descending. "Shit," I curse. "There's an injured cop over there," I tell the security team. "Another one here but I think he's dead. I need to get to the ground."

The guy in charge sends three of his team with me and I dive down the stairs dangerously quickly, nearly losing my footing and slipping several times. My heart hammers in my chest, seemingly forcing itself up into my throat as I fly down, leaving the trailing team behind until finally I burst out into the lobby just in time to watch Harvey and the woman disappear through the front door. Just as I'm wondering what to do about that, I hear the other elevator and whirl around as the masked killers emerge, shouting and firing warning bursts to clear their path to the exit. I fire a few rounds at them as I chase them to the exit. Outside the building, they pin me down with covering fire while they pile into a waiting black Declasse Granger and then they roar away. I fire at the retreating vehicle until my gun clicks empty and then throw it after it in frustration. I'm trying to decide whether to phone E-D or Kirby when a lime green modified Karin Kuruma roars around and screeches to a stop in front of me. "Get in," Harvey calls through an opened rear window. I stand for a second, confused, and the woman pushes open her passenger door and snaps "Now!"

I'm barely on the seat before she hits the gas and we speed away.

"What the Hell," I start.

"I'm sorry you've been dragged into this," Harvey says weakly, clutching at his chest where his wound is starting to weep.

"Did you email him," the woman demands from behind the wheel.

"No," I snap.

"What next," she demands. It takes me a second to realise she's talking to Harvey.

"We've gotta find Verzynski. They'll probably try for him next," he says.

"Over to you cop," the woman sneers, but then she puts in a call of her own via her vehicle's inbuilt sound system.

I call the hospital first. Shelling is okay, minor injury for which he's getting emergency treatment. Billings is dead. I feel a tight pain of guilt and sadness, he was a good cop.

Then I call Kirby and fill him in. He wants to know if I still have Shaun in my custody and I tell him I'm working on it. He's not convinced.

Finally I call E-D.

"Where you been _chica_ , I been tryin' to call you."

"What? I don't have any missed calls?"

"No, I got a strange tone, like you're number had disappeared."

What?

"How quick can you get to Alta?"

We catch up with E-D across the street from the motel on the corner of Alta Street and Occupation Avenue.

"What are you doing with _her_ ," he exclaims as the woman alights the Kuruma behind me.

"Long story," I say. "What do we know?"

He keeps his eyes on her as he tells me "anonymous tip off came in just under a half hour ago. Kirby called me direct and sent me over to keep an eye on the place until you arrived."

"Can we confirm if he's in there," I ask him.

"Candy..."

"It's okay," I say, trying to reassure him, although I'm not convinced myself.

The back door opens and Shaun struggles out. "The Hell's _he_ doing here," E-D bursts.

"Clearing my name," Shaun grimaces. The woman turns her attention to getting him back in the car, tells him not to be an idiot, that the windows are bullet-proof. While she's doing that, I fill E-D in on the events at the hospital, and our conversation in the car on the way over here.

"Shaun has agreed to assist us as long as we don't lock him up. And he's given me this," I add, showing him the tracking device with Shaun's GPS and vitals.

"What the Hell is that," E-D whispers.

"She injected him with it. They've got help from a guy with some expensive toys."

"No sh*t."

"As it is, unless we can take out biker b*tch, we only have Shaun as long as he's happy to play ball."

"You don't think we can handle her," E-D whispers back. My expression answers for me. "Oh, _sh*t_..."

I take his arm. "We'll sort it. I'll think of something-" I begin.

"Oh, _SH*T_ ," he repeats, louder. I turn and watch a black Granger pull in to the motel's parking lot. The same one from the hospital. The same four guys get out, still wearing the suits and balaclavas.

The woman's seen them too, slams the door shut and retrieves a carbine rifle from the trunk of the Kuruma. Diaz and I hurry across the road drawing our sidearms, but already they're kicking open one of the motel room doors and firing inside.

Diaz and I are taking cover on the stairs. Out on the street, I see the woman streak past, heading to the opposite side, but I can't worry about that now. She's first to engage, lays down cover fire allowing E-D and I to ascend.

The blond guy's on the veranda, occupied with returning fire with the woman so I'm able to get my gun on him. "Police, drop it," I yell. He swings towards me so both E-D and I put him down with a hit each in the chest.

I disarm him and kneel to check his pulse while E-D checks the open door to the suite is clear. Shouts and gunfire from the rear of the building catch our attention.

The blond is dead so we hurry down the opposite stairway and join the pursuit past the pool and around the rear of the building. From the darkness beyond, we hear the woman's carbine join in the exchange of gunfire between the fleeing Verzynski and the hit squad, just in time to take cover. When the shooting stops, Diaz and I dash across the yard and around the corner, but Verzynski and the woman are gone, only two dead guys in balaclavas left behind, one of them the African-American from the hospital.

We start making our way back around to the front of the motel and are just coming out onto the street when the Kuruma roars away. E-D cries out in frustration and aims his gun at it's taillights, but a movement to our right has caught my attention and I pull him to the ground just as the remaining hitman pops a couple of shots at us before climbing into the Granger.

Diaz and I both unload our weapons at it as we run back to Diaz's Voodoo but it's already got a head start on us by the time he's got it fired up.

"Time to let the cat outta the bag," he says and floors it, the old car surging forward with a brutal delivery of power that forces me back in my seat.

"Like that, huh," E-D grins as he sets a flashing red beacon on the centre of the dashboard. "I've been hiding a brand new DeClasse Racing crate engine."

"Sweet," I encourage as I get on the radio and call in the Granger's plate number to request backup. Up ahead, the woman's Kuruma roars out of an alleyway and joins the chase.

Diaz's car is cool, but it's ancient suspension isn't up to the chase. Every time the Granger makes a turn, we lose ground. The V8 crate engine brings us back up on straights, but the Granger is taking tight twists to prevent me or the passengers in the Kuruma getting a shot. The woman is good and keeps the Kuruma right on the Granger's six. When Diaz closes us up I'm surprised to see Verzynski, albeit with a shaved head, aiming out of the passenger window trying to take out it's tires. A woman sits looking nervous in the back, next to Harvey.

We're finally closing on the left side of the Granger for me to line up a shot when all of a sudden the enormous SUV cuts across a narrow intersection, blocking the road. Diaz slams on as the Granger slips past and then the SUV rolls right across the road, blocking us from continuing the pursuit. Heavy automatic fire comes out of cracked windows and I duck forwards while Diaz slides the selector to R and hits the gas to back us away and out of the line of fire. The Kuruma does likewise, and then we hear the SUV roar away.

E-D and I tumble out of the car as smoke billows out from the engine bay. "Oh, _man_ ," he groans in despair as he pops the hood and thick smoke fills the air with a hiss.

I hurry out to the road, joining Verzynski as he comes from the Kuruma, but the Granger is long gone and the SUV is beating a rapid retreat at a speed belying it's size.

Just as I'm getting my head around what we're gonna do now, a half dozen or so motorcycles roar past us.

Standing in the open driver's door of the Kuruma, the woman smiles.


	18. Chapter 18

Part 18 : Pawel Verzynski

First thing I did was cut off my dreadlocks. After what went down in Rockford Hills, I can't afford to be recognised. I wrote down the numbers I needed from my phone contacts and then destroyed the phone and the SIM card. Then I went back to the motel, shaved and picked up Cinnamon, took her to the Ammu-Nation on the corner of Vespucci and Adam's Apple Boulevard to brush her up on her shooting at their gun range.

We stopped at a phone box on Elgin Avenue on the way back so I could talk to Jones. He confirmed what I thought; IAD were crawling all over Rockwood Hills station and had spread to Pillbox Hill hospital. Someone had been to talk to Jones but they didn't seem to know about Gray, Lewis or Fletcher's involvement so they didn't hang around. Fletcher was MIA.

I wondered what the hell was going on that he wouldn't hang around to be part of the official investigation. So did Jones and he wanted me to come in so we could bash it out more, but I'm already in way over my head. I'm still a suspect for shooting Harvey, now two more cops are dead and a Lieutenant has been kidnapped in broad daylight? Sorry, I'm keeping my head _down_.

There's a SubUrban clothing store on Power Street. Not exactly premium, but better than Binco and I can't afford premium right now anyway. I buy a passable suit, shirt and tie so I can throw away my jeans and gray shirt to minimise any semblance to my previous appearance. Only thing left to get rid of is the bike, it's only a matter of time before they pin that to me. But for now, it's our only method of transportation so we leave it in an alley a block away from the motel and walk the back way to our suite where we take shifts sleeping until morning while the other watches the street.

She's watching the news when I wake up. Almost immediately my face fills the screen, so I know the APB's out on me. It's an old photo from my days on the force, but recent enough for me to be recognisable. _Sh*t_!

"What are we gonna do," she asks me.

"Only thing we can do," I tell her and dig the laptop out from where I'd hidden it. Nothing I can do now but try and make sense of the stuff I've gathered. Cinnamon sits down next to me. She wants to help. I can't afford to try and do it without her, but we need food and we need coffee.

"I'll get it," she says. "You need to stay here and make sure you're out when housekeeping comes around."

I take the laptop out to the pool and spend a half hour in the early morning sunshine while she picks up pastries and coffees to go from the 24-7 in the plaza behind the motel. The only other guests seem either intent on staying inside or leaving separately, and quickly with minimal interaction. Even if nobody finds us, staying a third night might be too suspicious.

While Cinnamon was in the 24-7 she also bought antiseptic and fresh bandages for my arm. We ate by the pool and she patched me up in the bathroom after we'd both showered. Then she started asking me about everything on the USB drives, and everything I'd done this week, and everything I knew about Madrazo from the days when he'd used me semi-occasionally as stand-in muscle, and tried to coach me to think about how any of it might be connected to what's on the USB drives.

Afternoon was just starting to give way to evening when I spotted him; the Detective that had come round our house the day after Harvey had gotten hit. I watched him as he watched the motel from across the road, standing next to his beat-up Voodoo.

"Heads up," I said to Cinnamon. "Be ready to move."

She's just beginning to pack up her stuff when a lime green modified Kuruma pulls up next to the cop. I watch it intently, wondering what the Hell's going on as a woman gets out. The cop clearly recognises her and I realise she must be his partner. I don't recognise the driver, but when she gets out - no!

It can't be? I'm not sure, but it looks like Shaun Harvey sitting in the back!

"Pawel," Cinnamon calls, looking out the other window. I hurry over in time to see a black Granger SUV coming around the building. I've seen enough of them in my time to recognise Feds when I see 'em.

"Out! Now," I growl and we bolt out the door. I pull it quietly shut behind us and dive over the back edge of the veranda, then turn and beckon for Cinnamon to follow. She's hesitant, but she trusts me and I catch her; just in the nick of time. We're only just slipping around the building past the pool when I hear the door of our suite being kicked open and then, immediately, automatic fire.

What the Hell...?

Suddenly I remember the laptop! It's still open on the bed with all the intel from the USB drives! I'm tempted to go back for it. Cinnamon grabs my arm, stopping me from going back for the stairs. She's right, of course. We run past the pool to the far side of the building that's disappearing into early evening shadow as we hear automatic gunfire blowing out the motel blockwork from behind us. We're planning on using the bench seat to clamber up over the hedge into the back yard of the apartment complex next door, when two more guys wearing suits and balaclavas jump down ahead of us, guns raised. Cinnamon opens fire first. I grab her and pull her out of their line of fire, strafing towards the wall while we fire back, but that way's a dead end and they've got us cornered. We stop and put our hands up in surrender as we come face to face with the impassable blockwork, but then we hear the automatic again. When we turn around, the two guys are dead and beyond their corpses stands the driver of the Kuruma, holding a smoking carbine. "Come on," she urges.

We don't have to be told twice.

We follow her to the Kuruma, are barely inside when she guns it and we roar away from the motel, the pair of bewildered cops emerging onto the street where we'd just come out of. "Oh, shit," I curse as I spot the last of the killers aiming his gun at them, but there's nothing I can do, we're moving too fast.

"Hello Pawel," someone wheezes from behind me and I spin in my seat in surprise.

I'd not been sure before, but there sits Shaun Harvey, gray and sweaty.

"Cinnamon, meet Shaun Harvey," I say.

Cinnamon turns to look at him. " _This_ is the guy you've gone to so much trouble over?"

Harvey looks from her to me. "I'm not sure if I should be scared or flattered?"

"Neither. We've gotta help those cops," I say.

"Agreed," Harvey says.

The woman driving seems unsure, but it also seems like she's doing what Harvey tells her so she grimaces, but pulls up the handbrake and spins the car 270 degrees anti-clockwise before reversing sharply back into an alleyway and bringing the car to a halt. "Seatbelts," she demands. Cinnamon and I obediently buckle up, then I turn in my seat. "It's gonna be okay baby," I say. I hear Cinnamon securing her seatbelt and then checking the clip on her pistol and sliding a round into the chamber.

"Let's just do this," she says.

The woman driving raises an eyebrow at me. I give her a proud grin in return. She's mine, b*tch. Eyes off.

The woman presses a button by the steering wheel and then the noise of a dial tone surrounds us, followed by a phone ringing.

"Lester," a familiar nasally voice announces.

"It's me," says the woman. "Ready to initiate The Scramble?"

"No," he complains, then hangs up.

The Granger roars past and the woman hits the gas, launching us out of the alley and into pursuit. I'm relieved to see the Voodoo following a way behind us. "That guy has my laptop," I tell the woman. "I _need_ that back."

As I'm saying it, the realisation hits me. The CCTV from the Mission Row break-in. "Oh sh*t..."

"What," demands Harvey.

" _You_ need that back," I say.

The woman says nothing, but I sense the shift in urgency with her. I reach back and ask Cinnamon to pass me her weapon and then I lean out and pop a shot, then another, towards the Granger's tires. The driver gets wind of what I'm up to, swerves for the first shot so it hits the bodywork harmlessly, then peels off North onto Las Lagunas Boulevard so the second shot goes wide. The woman driving reacts quickly, turning with the handbrake raised so we're quickly back on his tail as he twists East through a parking lot, bursting through a fence at the end and jumping over the drop until touching down and screaming Southwards on North Archer Avenue. We follow through the busted fence, the landing on the stiffened shocks nearly bouncing my head through the roof, and then out onto the streets again. I hear the Voodoo's V8 roaring behind us, watch it surge past on the straight of Spanish Avenue. That thing's packing some _serious_ horsepower.

The Granger slews West, and then South, onto South Vitus, then arcs left with it's tyres screaming into Hawick Avenue. Even with it's uprated springs it's bouncing around wildly and I worry that this is gonna end badly. Still I can't get a decent shot as it weaves South onto Eastbourne Way and then cuts a sharp left through an alleyway past the Vinewood LS Customs workshop to Carcer Way. Still the Granger powers on, twisting West and then South to cut across the Del Perro Freeway and down a side alley into a multi-level parking structure. For a brief second, I think he's gonna understeer and smash head-on into the wall, but the Granger's huge tires bite at the last second, swinging him to the right just enough to take him out of the parking structure and onto Vespucci Boulevard and then he swings right, heading West under the Olympic Freeway flyover towards Little Seoul.

The traffic is slightly heavier here and for a few seconds I'm confident we've got him. We're finally gonna get some answers. The Voodoo anticipates it's Southward turn and overtakes us as it twists onto Palomino Drive, then Eastwards past the Weazel News Building.

They're flanking the Granger on the left side now, the female cop lining up her shot, but then I see something big and black coming up ahead from the left and yell out. The woman hits the brakes; I see the taillights flash red on the Voodoo too as the big black SUV I encountered yesterday blocks off the street just as the Granger whizzes past it's front fender and disappears right.

I'm yelling out a warning but the woman's already got the Kuruma in reverse and we scream backwards as automatic fire starts to rain off the bodywork and the windshield. Cinnamon and Harvey both cry out and drop for cover. I'm trying to duck down too but the woman seems unnerved. Indeed, the windshield splinters in a couple places, but holds. Must be bulletproof.

I lift my head to check the Voodoo, fearing the worst. It too has pulled back and we're both up on the kerb on opposite sides of Palomino Drive. Smoke comes from under it's hood and I'm unbuckling myself and getting out of the car before I've even thought about it. The big SUV has already turned away and is making it's escape, but both cops are out of the Voodoo. Before I can run over to them, the quiet is broken by the noise of motorcycles and then a whole convoy of outlaw bikers flashes between the stricken cars, blocking the intersection as the convoy snakes right, but then breaks off in all directions beyond.

"What the Hell's _that_ ," I hear the lady cop say.

From behind me, the woman answers "The Scramble."

The male cop has his hands on his head looking at his ruined engine, but now he turns his attention to us, unholsters his weapon. I raise my hands to show him I mean no harm, but I hear behind me the woman has bought her own sidearm to bear.

The lady cop puts her hand on top of her partner's gun. I turn and beckon for the woman to lower hers, then turn back and say "listen, we're all on the same side, alright?"

"Why don't you get to tellin' me what side that is," the male cop snaps. His partner squeezes his arm.

"My name's Pawel," I say, as calmly as I can muster. "I didn't shoot Harvey. He's in the car."

"I'm Butler, this is Diaz," the lady cop introduces. The woman behind me grunts.

Harvey pushes open the rear door of the Kuruma. "I call her The Brunette," he wheezes. "We mean you no harm, Detective Diaz."

"And that's my girl, Cinnamon," I add as she hesitantly comes and stands by my side.

"Alright," Butler says. "We spoke to Captain Jones today. He says you've been investigating Harvey's reappearance in Los Santos for him."

I nod. "That's right."

"No big mystery," Harvey says. "Show him my phone."

"She can't, _pendejo_ , it's in Evidence where it f***ing belongs," Diaz spits.

"Shaun got an email, apparently from me, apparently saying I was in some sort of trouble," Butler cuts in.

"And I'm guessing another one, apparently from _me_ luring him out to his attempted murder," I add. Harvey nods.

"What happened at Rockford Hills yesterday," Butler asks.

"Jones called me," I say. "Lieutenant Gray showed up at Mount Zonah, asking about Harvey. Jones wanted me to pick him up before a couple of Gray's cops got to him first."

"How'd Officer Pearson wind up involved," she asks.

"Someone dropped him and his partner off butt naked in a rough neighbourhood," I explain, and I'm aware of The Brunette and Harvey exchanging a glance. "I picked 'em up before the situation got too far out of hand. They worked out of Rockford Hills so when Jones called me, I asked Pearson if he could get eyes on Gray ahead of me and he was happy to do me a favor. Lewis and Fletcher picked Gray up, we were just about to pull 'em over and then the Behemoth showed up."

"We ran into that thing at Paleto Bay," Harvey says, earning himself a sharp glare from The Brunette.

From inside Diaz's wrecked Voodoo we hear the crackle of radio. Butler leans in to pick it up. When she comes back, her frown has intensified. "That was Kirby," she says to her partner. "The Granger's plates are Government issue."

"What," he exclaims.

I shake my head. "I _knew_ they were Feds." Everybody looks at me. I shrug. "What, you couldn't tell?"

Diaz looks up and then spins away. Butler shakes her head. Cinnamon grips on to my waist more tightly while The Brunette nods slightly. "I bet I can guess which one," she says.

"Agent Sanchez," I ask and Butler stiffens.

"Yep," The Brunette affirms.

"Jesus," Butler breathes.

"You had a run in with him too," I ask.

"He turned up at Vinewood station to order me to stop looking into the evidence from..." she starts, but trails off. "Okay, what do we do?"

"Nothing we can do until I hear from the BMMC," The Brunette says. "I called them for the Granger, but they'll be tracking that big monster now it's reared its ugly head again."

"They'll be cannon fodder," Diaz snaps. The Brunette grins at him.

"The bikes are just the _distraction_ ," she says. "My people, we can be like _ghosts_."

"Well, whatever happens, the Voodoo ain't goin' nowhere," Diaz complains quietly to his partner.

"I told Kirby, he's gonna have someone pick it up."

"Alright," says The Brunette. "We'll be in touch. Verzynski, I highly recommend you get in my car."

Cinnamon holds tighter still onto my waist. "Wait a minute," I ask, then turn back to Butler and Diaz. "Get my girl a ride back to town and get her somewhere safe."

"What? Pawel, no," Cinnamon starts to insist.

I take her face in my hands. "You _saw_ that thing," I say. "The guys behind it are ruthless. I'm going after them, I need to know you're out of harm's way-"

"I have sex for money," she snaps at me. I see the cops wince. "That's not down to anything on your part. It's because it's the only way I know of to contribute to _us_. I'm not some porcelain bimbo you need to protect!" Now she lays a hand on my cheek. "And you're not as tough as you pretend to be."

"Cin-"

"Get in the car or we're leaving you behind," she whispers and walks casually back to the Kuruma, straps herself into her seat in the back next to Harvey, leaving me floundering. The Brunette gives me a smile and gets in the driver's seat.

"Hang on, you're not just gonna drive away," explodes Diaz, raising his gun again. Butler takes something out of her pocket and shows it to him. "That stupid toy is probably just some gimmick," he yells at her.

"That 'stupid toy' is what my friends used to get to our location," The Brunette interrupts from the driver's seat of the Kuruma. "It's what they're using to track the big thing," she adds before slamming her door shut and starting the engine.

"Look, you've got us on your tracker," I say. "Be sure to bring heavy back-up, because the guys in that big thing don't f*** about. You can't afford to f*** about with them."

Then I turn and walk back to the Kuruma while Diaz shouts "Verzynski," with his gun aimed at my back. When I ignore him, he curses angrily and kicks his stranded car behind me.

We don't drive far. She takes us to the WigWam fast food joint on South Rockford Drive where we order four Big Chief Specials with Redskin fries and sit in uneasy silence as we eat. Finally her cellphone rings and she puts it on speaker for us all to hear.

"They tried to give us the slip, but we found where they're hiding the Insurgent," a male voice says.

"Insurgent," The Brunette asks.

"Yeah, it's a high-grade Military armored vehicle," a female voice explains, then adds "who's Long John Teabag?"

The Brunette grins. Harvey looks at her confused and she gives him a quick shake of the head. "I'll explain later. You were saying you found where they stashed it?"

"Yeah, they've got it hidden in a lean to by an old boat house in the middle of nowhere. From there they boarded a motor dinghy. It's difficult to see but there's a large yacht out on the water. The crew seems to be running from that."

"They're well armed. Getting out to it without being shot out of the water will be difficult," I say.

"I might have a solution for that," Harvey says, and takes out his own phone. He dials a number and puts it to his head. "Hey. Yeah, that's me. Listen, you still have the helicopter from the, er, job? That's okay, it just needs to fly. Great, I might have a favour to ask."

It's 04:43, Wednesday morning. Dawn will be breaking before the clock ticks over the hour. We've spent the night doing target practice out in the sticks to determine the best shots amongst us and now we're all clad in identical black fatigues with paintball masks, provided by The Brunette's biker club.

Riding on the helicopter is a couple with thick Scottish accents, David and Wendy, and a guy an Irish accent wearing full tactical gear introduced to me as "Sniper." We're waiting for news on the radio that they're on the way to initiate the first wave of attack on the yacht.

Meanwhile, I'm with Cinnamon, The Brunette, an ill-looking Harvey and an extremely mismatched collection of bikers of pretty much all gender options and every possible skin tone. We've left the bikes just off the highway at an area that looks like it has a roadside vendor during the daytime. The Brunette took me back to the motel to reclaim the bike I stole from The Lost and, I have to admit, it felt good riding in the pack with them as we'd headed North up the Los Santos Freeway to our exit with Cinnamon sat behind me. When all this is over, I might have to get the bike painted and re-registered so I can keep it.

At the head of the pack is a dude called Bajen, the Club President, flanked by his Lieutenants Ant, his girl Brii beside him, Zuwali. Then we have DyNa, Reap3r, Alpha, Irish, another Reaper and a couple, Emma and Adam. A young dude called Popeye. A guy called Wolf. Road Captain Lowrider brings up the rear. A glance at Harvey confirms he's thinking the same sort of thing I am. This is _our_ investigation, but now we've lost control.

At 04:48, we get the call. The chopper's en-route. A whisper ripples across the bunch of us waiting in the cold morning and immediately, quietly, stand up, raise our weapons and dash towards the first of the three houses. Ant picks the front door lock and the two Reapers head inside with Adam and Emma watching their six. There's just a retired couple in there. They're convinced to wrap up warm, lie down on the ground and not move, for their own safety while an operation goes on next door. The Reapers stay behind to keep them secured.

The rest of us proceed to the next building. Paint on the roof proclaims it's for sale by foreclosure but there's an SUV outside. Emma and Adam take point this time, backed up by Alpha and Irish. The guy sleeping alone in there is the same guy whose photo is on the realty sign outside the property, in a sleeping bag on the floor surrounded by paint tins and hardware. Emma and Adam remain to make sure he doesn't make a fuss.

One property left. Right at the edge, there's a house to the left and, opposite on the right, a boat house next to a lean-to under which the Insurgent is parked. Two run-down old boats lie outside the property and, at the water's edge is a motor dinghy like the one used to ferry the Insurgent crew over to the yacht. We hear the noise of the helicopter approaching as Bajen, Ant, Brii and Zuwali take cover by the rear wall of the house. Lowrider, The Brunette, Popeye and myself flank and clear the Insurgent before moving over to the boathouse. That's clear as well, but then the door of the house opens and out comes a man in a suit carrying a heavy automatic rifle, alerted by the sound of the helicopter. He freezes in the doorway when he spots us at the boathouse and time seems to slow down. It feels like I'm trying to raise my carbine through treacle as he brings the automatic to bear and I realise this is how I'm gonna die.

Then his head explodes in a shower of crimson as Bajen controls to the recoil of his magnum revolver and all of us rush the house as, from the helicopter, heavy machinegun fire begins to rain down on the yacht.

Ant and Brii are inside first, followed by myself and The Brunette. It's run-down and dilapidated, but really that's irrelevant. It has a kitchen that's clear, a living room and two makeshift bedrooms separated by a bathroom. Ant takes down a guy waiting behind the sofa, and I head to one of the bedrooms to put down another guy whose been rudely awoken by our invasion. Another one opens fire at us from the other bedroom, forcing the bikers to retreat to the kitchen while they return fire, and he's shredded by three carbines while I'm forced to duck down over the corpse of the guy I took out to avoid being caught myself.

Now we have a problem. There's fourteen of us want to go to the yacht, but the dinghy only takes four. Harvey looks like he's going to keel over and die and I can't take Cinnamon being so close to the thick of things any longer, so I ask her to keep him safe and make sure I'm first into the dinghy. Bajen, Lowrider and Ant join me for the first crossing and over we zip. I drive while the others aim their weapons towards the yacht, watching out for anybody that's noticed we're coming despite the distraction of the helicopter.

We make it without drawing any fire and I'm able to read the yacht's name as I pull the dinghy up to the stern alongside another; Diamond Rain.

I don't wait to be ordered back by Bajen and clamber onto the yacht ahead of the trio of bikers in search of targets for my carbine. From the open door beyond the hot tub I find my first two and mow them down before they can shout a warning that they're being boarded. Then I have to drop down into the hot tub as two more guys sprint out, hosing down the deck with automatic fire. Bajen and Ant take care of them for me and run ahead as I clamber out, soaked, and awkwardly make my way after them. Inside the yacht is a bar. Ant and Bajen run past it, but I check to make sure it's clear and find a black-haired girl cowering behind it. I grab her wrist and push her back towards the stern of the boat where Lowrider is lashing the dinghies together, preparing to return to get the rest of the crew. Beyond the bar, a staircase splits off into two directions. Ant is sheltered behind one, Bajen the other. Both are taking fire. From underneath us, I feel the engines surging to life and start to panic, head back outside to try and fight my way up to the bridge. I'm just taking cover at one flight of steps when the ship is rocked by an explosion; one of the shooters on the helicopter has hit it with an RPG to try and stop it sailing away. Slowly, but definitely, the ship starts to lean over to the starboard and I have to jump back to the opening to avoid the desperate fire of the crew trying to hold us off.

Time just became infinitely shorter in supply. I make my way to back up Bajen, step round him into the open with my carbine blazing and head up the stairs blindly. A round hits the wall inches away from my head and I drop involuntarily to the deck, ears ringing, as Bajen steps around me and unloads the magnum into the shooter. Ant joins us from the opposite side and takes out another guy trying to shelter in the doorway of a room beyond. A woman gasps from the room and the three of us advance towards it. 9mm fire makes us duck out of the way of the door and we shelter until it clicks empty, then we rush in and find an Asian woman trying to reload. Ant snatches the gun from her. She glares at us angrily, but then forces a smile.

"Gentlemen, whatever you're looking for, I assure you you're going to be disappointed."

"I don't think so," Bajen says. "Looks like you've got a nice, lucrative little enterprise going on here."

"Had," she corrects. "Until you boys decided to sink my vessel. What were you hoping to accomplish with that?"

"Who are you," I demand. She looks at me with contempt.

"Please, as if I'm going to divulge that."

I shake my head. "You don't want to die here," I say.

She tilts her head. "Given my current predicament, it looks like I no longer have any choice in the matter."

"Of course you do. Talk."

"Talk? Really, you need to work on your intimida-"

I stop her by pulling her ankle up so she tumbles backwards on the bed, force off one of the high heels she's wearing, then grab her wrist, pin it to the wood-panelled wall, raise the shoe to hammer the stiletto into her palm.

"Okay," she urges, tensing.

Don't challenge _me_ when it comes to intimidation.

"Why did you try and kill me? Why did you try and kill Harvey," I demand.

"What? Oh, you fool..."

"I don't have _time_ for this," I growl.

"You must be the Detective Verzynski," she says, struggling to try and pull her wrist from my grip. "Agent Sanchez has been stressing about you all week. He really hasn't been himself since Shaun Harvey returned to Los Santos."

Now I'm really confused. "What's your interest in Harvey?"

One of the suited killers bursts hurriedly into the room behind us. "My lady, we need to-" he starts. Ant silences him, permanently, making the woman try to pull back. I keep my grip on her firm.

"Do you know how long it took me to put this organisation together," the woman cries. Ant puts the hot barrel of his rifle scant millimetres from her cheek, making her sink back down.

"Harvey," I demand, then a thought occurs to me. "The truck heist... _you_?"

Now she smiles at me. "Well, well. You might make a Detective yet. Yes, one of my teams stole the truck from Madrazo after _his_ goons took it. Of course, we weren't counting on getting ripped off ourselves."

"You really think Harvey did that?"

"No," she smirks. "Sanchez tried so hard to convince us otherwise. I've been wanting to speak with Harvey ever since that day, but it looks like Agent Sanchez has been trying his hardest to make sure that doesn't happen."

"Sanchez works for _you_?"

"Sanchez stumbled on a little something about us that would be bad for his health if he ever revealed it to anyone."

"So you're blackmailing him," Ant interrupts.

"More like motivating him to remain useful," she says.

"Useful like covering up your _massacre_ ," Ant snarls.

Uh-oh...

Ant is _going_ to end the conversation.

I'm _going_ to stop him.

But another explosion rocks the ship sharply over onto it's port side and all of us lose our footing. Ant and I lose our guns too.

Bajen is still armed, but he's landed awkwardly in the door frame. The woman takes the opportunity and jumps out past us and disappears while Ant and I struggle over to help him.

"The ship's definitely going down now. We have to get out of here," I shout.

"F***, my leg," Bajen complains and, despite the black fatigues, Ant and I can see the blood. Ant gets Bajen's arm around his neck and together they start hobbling for the exit. I'm following when I hear a familiar voice shout "hey!"

We all stop. I turn towards the sound. Bajen twists so he can aim his gun in that direction. Bloodied, starved, beaten and barely able to stand upright is Lieutenant Raymond Gray. He's gotten hold of a snub-nosed revolver which he's got aimed at me.

"You're leaving, you're getting _me_ out of here," he snarls.

"F*** you, you piece of shit," I say. He tries to take a step towards me, stumbles. Bajen fires and the gun drops to the deck as Gray starts clutching his arm and screaming. I punch him in the face to knock him out. I'm tempted to leave him there, but I don't.

We come out on deck. Lowrider is driving one of the dinghies, with DyNa, Alpha and Irish spraying carbine fire at bloodied survivors on the yacht who are desperately trying to re-secure their boats to be able to get off the yacht. The other is piloted by Popeye with Wolf, Zuwali and The Brunette laying down fire.

Ant takes the rifle from Bajen and mops the remaining yacht crew up from behind, then we signal to the dinghies that we need extraction, _now_. Lowrider pulls up and helps us get Bajen and Gray onto his dinghy, then turns and heads back to shore, riding low in the water with the overladen boat. Popeye brings the other dinghy round for Ant and I and then we push away from the sinking ship and hightail it back to shore.


	19. Chapter 19

Part 19A : Eduardo Diaz

"Call Wizz Wireless, have them run a trace on my cell," Candy commands before I can say anything.

"What," I ask, confused.

"My _cell_ ," she urges, then grins at me. "I left it in her car."

Ah! _There's_ the Candy I know. I call it in and the operator asks me to hold on. A few minutes later, she confirms the car's stopped a few blocks away on South Rockford Drive outside a fast food joint. Candy shows me the reading on the tracking device they gave her; it's a match, so we know for now, at least, it's giving us a true reading on Harvey's location. Unless they've thrown out the tracker _and_ Candy's cell...

It's fifteen minutes before a gray Ubermacht Oracle pulls up. "Get in," Captain Kirby instructs us from the drivers' seat.

Kirby doesn't need to tell us twice and we waste no time in filling him in on what's gone on tonight, the attempted hit on Harvey at the hospital and the follow-up attack on Verzynski. Kirby's evidently surprised that we've managed to assist in preventing both, but he hides it, yells at us for letting the killer get away, twice. Butler's mention that Harvey, The Brunette _and_ Verzynski all suspect Agent Sanchez's involvement gets his attention.

"Yo, who is this Sanchez clown," I ask from the back seat.

"He showed up at Vinewood this afternoon, throwing his weight around," Kirby gruffs. "You kids wanna take him down, your case needs to be _tight_."

I'm amped up for chasing after the Kuruma, getting Harvey, Verzynski and the woman in custody right now, probably leaning on Verzynski's squeeze to see if we can get her to give anything up too, although not likely if she's a working girl. But that ain't where we're headed.

Occupation Avenue and Alta Street are closed down by LSPD cruisers flashing the lights and the motel is taped off while the crime scene techs photograph the dead bodies and comb for evidence. The motel manager is railing at the two cops stopping him from re-entering the premises. Kirby leads us over, and introduces himself to the manager.

"You're the Captain? Good, cos I got a _complaint_ ," the manager moans.

"We'll let you reopen for business just as soon as we can release the scene," Kirby starts.

"You wouldn't _have_ a scene if you'd got here this morning!"

"This morning," I ask. "You only called the sighting through late afternoon!"

He glares at me. "I called the sighting through," he yells, "after I'd waited four hours for the cop that came canvassing to get back here and _do_ something about it."

"Wait, you told a _cop_ Verzynski was here _before_?"

"Yeah," he snaps. "Came in with a badge and a uniform in a f***ing squad car. Shows me the photo and I said 'oh yeah, he's in room two.' He disappears and nothing happens until I get a god damn _massacre_ in my backyard!"

"What cop was this, he give you a name," Kirby demands, but my heart's already in my mouth. I can't quite believe it, don't wanna believe it, but the Manager gives me no choice.

"Walker," he growls.

Kirby glares daggers at me while Candy's mouth drops open. I want to throw up.

" _Find_ Walker," Kirby orders.

"We need wheels," Candy says. Kirby beckons one of the cops from the perimeter over and demands his car keys. The cop passes them to us and I let Candy take the drivers' seat; I _hate_ driving these things.

We pull up outside the Vinewood Boulevard entrance to the precinct and hurry inside. There's no sign of Walker there and his supervisor confirms he hasn't been in all day so we ask for access to his locker. Nothing in there other than a change of clothes, shower gel and a can of deodorant.

I'm considering calling Wizz again to see if they can get me anything of Walker's cellphone when the Desk Sergeant hurries over to us to tell us there's been a sighting of the SUV we put the APB out on; the Granger, not the monster.

The scrapyard is at El Burro Heights. Foreman Wesley is stood with the uniforms that called in the sighting and the Granger is abandoned in the yard, a little banged up.

"Has anyone approached it," Candy asks.

The cops shake their head and the manager complains that it had been abandoned after hours, but he wants the salvage.

We draw our weapons and advance towards it. As we get closer, we can hear something banging from inside. I cover the trunk while Candy fishes out a latex glove from her suit pocket, grips the driver door handle and reaches in for the trunk release.

Bound and bruised in the back is Walker.

"Sh*t... Diaz? Get me out of here man," he says. Candy comes and joins me and the two of us haul him out of the Granger and throw him into the back of the squad car while he protests all the way.

We check the Granger for any more clues, but without CSI's going over it, there's nothing we're going to get.

I radio it in. Kirby's voice comes over telling us he'll meet us at the precinct, so we ask the two cops to maintain the perimeter until the crime scene techs can get there. The Foreman groans because he can't go home and sleep until we release the scene, but he's just gonna have to sit on it because there's bigger things going on.

Walker pleads, complains and then starts getting hostile to the point where Candy pulls over the car and I ask him if he wants to go in the trunk again. That shuts him up and we drag him into the station through the front door into Interrogation 1 where Kirby's waiting for us.

"Where've _you_ been today, Walker," he demands.

"What? I've been on my beat," Walker complains. Kirby pounds the table, making him jump.

"Strike one. Wanna try that _again_ , Officer?"

"Alright," Walker cries, pleadingly. "Alright, I been canvassing for Verzynski. Diaz let me help him, I wanted to help out!"

"Yeah, you been canvassing, but you ain't been helping _us_ ," I snap, accusingly.

"The f*** are you _talking_ about," he wails.

"You spoke to the motel manager _four hours_ before that same manager got fed up of waiting and called us to remind us he had our guy in one of his rooms."

"Yeah, I was on my way to radio that in for backup. Next thing I know, Agent Sanchez comes up and bundles me into the trunk of his SUV."

"Agent Sanchez," Kirby asks him.

"Yeah. You found me in his car, right," he says, getting a little cocky now.

"We did," Candy concedes. "This was around lunchtime, right?"

"I dunno. I guess," Walker shrugs.

Candy turns to Kirby. "That's right around the time Agent Sanchez was with _you_ ain't it, Captain? You reckon the Feds really _can_ be everywhere at once?"

Walker tries to stand now, panicking. Forgetting he's cuffed to the table so he's forced into a stoop. "Look, I _thought_ it was Sanchez! It was his car," he blurts.

"You friendly with a _lot_ of Feds, Walker," Kirby demands.

Walker sinks back down. He's quiet for a beat, and then he says, weakly, "I want a lawyer."

Now Kirby sits down opposite him, leans over. "You wanna lawyer up? Go right ahead, be my guest. You're _finished_ with the LSPD."

Walker raises his head to meet Kirby's gaze. His face is red. Eyes are too. Kirby sits back.

"Or," he says, more gently. "You can tell us _exactly_ what the f*** is going on, and maybe... _maybe_ we can make it right."

Walker nods, eagerly. "Look, I didn't wanna do it. I wouldn't have done it if it wasn't a Fed that told me to."

"Told you to _what_ , Ese," I demand. It's not the _nice_ way of pronouncing 'Ese'. Kirby might be playing good cop, but this little f***er betrayed me and I'm p*ssed.

"There's a yacht off the coast. The _Diamond Rain_. There's a crew operates off of it, pulls off all the biggest heists in Los Santos. I don't know why, or how, but they've got hooks in Sanchez, give him intel on rival operations in exchange for him keeping them out of the headlines. They help his career and they _pay_ too."

Kirby looks at me. " _Diamond Rain_. Get on it," he orders. I be sure to barge Walker as I storm out.

It's coming up to 6am and daylight has broken when the N.O.O.S.E. helicopter flies us out over the Pacific Ocean. I'm still wearing my off-white sports blazer, shirt, jeans and sneakers and feeling very underdressed amongst the half-dozen N.O.O.S.E. agents in black tactical gear, balaclavas and helmets. All of us have small sports cameras attached to our heads so we can record anything we see as evidence later.

Below us, we see the _Diamond Rain_ listing on one side, low in the water, smoking from two large holes that have been blown in her hull. Two small dinghies are zipping towards the shore where any moment Candy, Kirby and all the uniformed officers we could pull together will be swarming in. Time will tell whether they'll get there in time.

"You ready," one of the N.O.O.S.E. guys asks me.

"You kiddin'," I call back. This is gonna be the best fun I've had all month.

Two of the N.O.O.S.E. guys rappel down to the yacht first, and then it's my turn. The cold morning air hits me, I feel the rush as I drop down the rope through it, pausing every few seconds to make sure I don't lose control of the descent. The two guys already down help me disconnect and crack jokes about how they didn't think I'd go that slowly, but I'm watching for the last two guys coming down and I think I held my own. I wouldn't mind another go, but now we've gotta get down to business because this ship is _sinking_.

The first port of call is to clear the Bridge. No sign of the Captain up there, but we find him on the next deck down, catch him as he's planning to leap over the side. His wrists are bound behind him with zip cuffs and one of the N.O.O.S.E. guys keeps hold on his with his Combat Pistol held to his head to make sure he behaves. Once that's done, we head down,

All of the N.O.O.S.E guys are carrying Carbines. They've given me a Combat Pistol and ordered me to stay behind them so I do and we head into the guts of the yacht. Seems like whatever action there was going to be has happened already. Beyond the bar is a staircase that splits off to the left and right. The N.O.O.S.E team split up into two teams. I decide to go with the crew to the left.

It brings us out into a lounge area, beyond which a corridor leads to a row of bedrooms. The first three are clear, but then we go into the fourth. Three men in suits with carbines surround an Asian woman in a torn dress, missing one of her shoes.

There's surprise, confusion, and then the firing starts.

Part 19B : Pawel Verzynski

We reached the shore and I let the bikers clamber out before turning my attention to hauling Gray out. The fat f*** is _heavy_ but I'd got this close. I wasn't letting him go now.

Immediately I could tell something was up. There was no sign of Cinnamon. The other bikers were looking around uncertainly for their comrades as well. That's when the flashing red and blue lights started to appear over the hill.

Most of the bikers' first reaction was to fight, but I don't want any part in exchanging fire with cops.

I shouted for Cinnamon, but there was no answer, so I rushed into the yellow house with the 'For Sale By Foreclosure' notice painted on it's roof.

"What's going on," the male biker, Adam, asks as I slam the door shut behind me and set the unconscious Gray down on the floor.

"Cops," I explain. "Keep quiet."

"F*** _that_ ," the other one, Emma, spits. Both check their weapons are loaded and the safeties are off and head out. "Watch him," Emma orders.

"Wait," I hiss, but they're not listening. "F***!"

The realtor looks up at me nervously. "Alright, you," I say. "Got any duct tape in that toolbox?"

He nods, scurries over on his hands and knees and throws me the roll, watches me silently, intently, as I bind Gray's wrists and ankles. Gunfire booms from outside and he drops to the floor with a high-pitched "Jesus!"

His face is on the For Sale sign at the top of the hill, but why can't I recall his name? "David?"

Bingo. He looks at me, wide-eyed.

"I need you to drive me someplace," I say, calmly as I can.

" _What_?"

"That your car outside?"

"Y-yes," he stammers.

"Give me the keys," I interrupt, firmly. He does.

"Can I get dressed," he starts to ask.

"No time," I say. I nod towards Gray. "Grab him and let's go."

He's got a Cannis Mesa parked outside. Not the best choice of getaway vehicle, but the cops and the bikers are distracted with each other so all we gotta do is keep quiet.

I gently push open the door, crouching low, and peer outside. The bikers are retreating back towards the shoreline, holding off the cops with suppressing fire. Very slowly and carefully, I reach over and unlock the driver's door of the Mesa. Fortunately central locking opens the others too. Now I turn back and help Realtor David bundle Gray as quietly as we can onto the back seat.

Realtor David starts to head around to the passenger side. "Whoa, whoa, whoa, you're driving slick," I say to him and shove him in the driver's side.

Once I'm sat next to him in shotgun I hand him the keys. "Go up behind the neighbor's house, keep the lights off and stay low in your seat," I instruct him.

There's a shout from the cops as we get to the retired couple's house, but the bikers have still got them pinned with heavy fire while they beat their retreat over the mountains. As I peer back through the rear window I notice Butler down there, crouched in cover. Jeez, I really hope she survives this.

We make it to the road, a few bullets beating on the trunk cover.

"David," I ask gently.

"Yeah," he pants.

"Do me a favour, go ahead and step on it."

We pass the area where we'd parked the bikes up. There's a cop car parked there and the cop stood next to it raises his gun towards us. I push Realtor David down, duck myself and my side window shatters, but we're still going and he makes no move to pursue us.

Half the bikes had been moved, mine one of them. Hopefully Cinnamon's escaping on it.

I have Realtor David drive us right past Sandy Shores on the road past the derelict Motel where I'd seen so much chaos last week, back to the intersection with Route 68 and drop me off at the old gas station.

"You got a cellphone on you," I ask him. He shakes his head and looks down over himself, reminding me that I dragged him out here in his T-shirt and boxer shorts. I drag Gray out of the back, where I'd had to punch him on the drive to knock him out again and tell Realtor David that he's free to go. He wastes no time.

Conner's still where I left him, wired to the car battery, and so are the other dead bikers. Nobody's found 'em except the flies and maggots. I'm glad I got the bandana.

Gray starts to come round as I'm fixing him to a chair opposite Conner's corpse and I leave him there to struggle as I search the bikers for their cellphones.

"Jesus Christ, what the _f***_ ," Gray protests as his eyes take in the scene. I silence him by crouching in his eyeline and putting a finger to my lips. I've found two phones and I call out first on one, then the other, set them both to speaker.

"Say good morning to our audience, Lieutenant Gray," I taunt as I rifle through a toolbox and find a large wrench. That ought to do for starters.

"F*** you and f*** whoever you're working for Verzynski," Gray spits and then starts to scream as I hammer the wrench on his bandaged knee. "Jesus, you sick son of a b*tch," he curses in anguish.

"For the benefit of our friends not party to this morning's misadventures so far, why don't you start by telling them where you were languishing," I invite him. He glares at me, saying nothing. "No? Oh well. I picked him up on a yacht just off Catfish View. It's probably underwater now, but I think Vinewood PD might have gotten some interesting evidence off it."

"Alright, Verzynski, enough," Gray spits, coughs. "I don't work for those guys, they just have me by the balls," he complains.

"Keep talking," I encourage.

"Alright, look," Gray pleads. "I was asked to do a _job_. Just like _you_. There was a Fed I used to share intel with, I thought he'd be able to lend a hand, make sure the plan didn't go to sh*t..."

"This Fed have a name," I demand, but I've got a feeling I already know the answer.

"Sanchez," he confirms.

"So what happened, Raymond? You get to talking with Sanchez, you decide 'why share the spoils of this little plan? Why not take it all for ourselves, blame it on some poor slob that works for me'?"

"No," Gray cries. "I tell Sanchez, he tells me he'll make sure everything goes without a hitch. Not until later do I realise Ericsson's gone missing, wasn't even the driver like he was supposed to be, and Sanchez has gone ratting out one of my guys to the Captain. Then I start getting payments in my account, payments I can't trace, and neither can any of the CI's I run that know about that kind of thing. And I get photos."

"What photos?"

"My wife! My kids, even my damn Mistress! And I can't do anything, because they know where they are _every day_!"

"So you've spent five years playing puppet to your blackmailers."

"What would you do in my place, Verzynski? You ever care enough about anyone they can use it against you?"

I punch him then. I can't help myself. When he gets done reeling, I ask him "so what happened to the money? Harvey never had it, did he?"

"No," Gray admits. "But neither did the f***ers threatening me. We've all been carefully picking at the official version since that day, but it seems like all roads lead back to Sanchez."

I drop the wrench. "There you have it," I announce to the phones, and then I head out.

Gray struggles futilely as I shut the garage behind me and cries "Verzynski! _Verzynski!_ "

It's not too far to walk from here to pick up the sh*t-colored Karin from where I abandoned it. A bunch of parking tickets are tucked under the wipers. I pull them out and let the wind spread them out over the desert, fire up the engine and head back to Los Santos.

I'm just coming into the city when my own cell rings. It's Jones. "You might want to get down to Mission Row," he says. "Something's just come up."

Ten minutes later I'm pulling up out front and storming in. "Captain Jones," I ask the Desk Sergeant and I'm pointed in the direction of a door in the wall behind me. I head on through, ignoring the signs, find Jones in a room with one-way glass with a dishevelled Detective Fletcher and a guy I don't recognise with his arm in a sling.

Jones beckons for me to come in and shut up. Fletcher glares at me, but returns his attention to the guy in the sling. "It's okay, you can take all the time you need. I just need to know if this was the guy that shot you?"

The guy takes a look, but shakes his head. "Nah," he says. "The guy running the prison break was a tough son of a bitch. Not _that_ pussy. You're looking for a professional. Ice cold."

I turn my head to look at the glass. On the other side, alone where there should be an ID parade, is Shaun Harvey.

Jones grips onto my arm as Fletcher leads the guy out, still trying to cajole an ID out of him.

"What's going on," I ask when we're finally alone.

"Fletcher collared Harvey down at Catfish View. Snuck in while the Vinewood cops were busy exchanging fire with a biker gang."

"Jesus," I curse.

"Don't matter," Jones growls.

"What do you mean? Of course it matters! Did you send someone to pick up Gray?"

Jones shakes his head. "Last thing I need is him throwing another spanner in the works."

I'm losing it now. "Damn it, Jones, what the f*** is going on here?"

"I'm cleaning my house," Jones says, stern but calm. "We can't get Harvey on the truck heist, or on the prison break it seems, but Fletcher's somehow gotten a hold of the CCTV from Harvey's break-in here the other night. Can't _imagine_ how he got hold of those..."

"What, so you're going to put him away for whatever you can get him for?"

"That's right," Jones says. "Thank you for your assistance in this matter, but Gray's confession earlier ain't exactly reliable in court, and the public still thinks one of my cops is responsible for the _thing_ five years ago."

"What about Fletcher?"

Jones looks ruefully in the direction Fletcher had gone. "I ain't sure yet. I know the self same Fed told me Harvey was guilty has dirt on Gray and his crew. Just need to find out if that dirt is ever gonna be aired in public. If it ain't, then it's not a problem." He takes a step towards his office, then stops, turns. "You can see yourself out, can't you Pawel?"

"Wait a minute," I snap and storm ahead of him. "What about our deal?"

"You mean the deal where you bring me Shaun Harvey discreetly?"

"Damn it, Jones, I lost _everything_ trying to follow this up for you!"

He looks me up and down, and then asks me, calmly, "you still got the keys to that impound car?"

I fish them out of my pocket, intending to throw them at him, but he stops me. "Keep 'em," he says. "I need to see to a few things right now, but we'll talk later, okay?"

I scowl angrily so Jones insists " _okay_?"

I turn on my heel and storm out.

The night I'd met Cinnamon, I'd felt like I was at rock bottom. She'd had a bad experience with some self-important rich a$$hole that had treated her like filth and we'd been lonely at opposite ends of the bar. Gradually we became aware of each other as we'd drank and the rest was, admittedly very checkered, history.

Back then my suit had been ruined with sweat and blood. One of the first strong-arm jobs Madrazo had had me do. Sykes had told me it was worth it, that we were achieving results that justified the means, but already I was having doubts.

After the last few days since Catfish View, the suit I'm wearing isn't in any better condition.

There's no sign of the bike outside the Rockford Dorset, but she stands up as soon as I head into the foyer. My heart leaps with relief, but it's short-lived; she's not alone.

A guy in the sort of suit only a cop would wear stands up and then, next to him, so does Jones. I walk over, uncertainly.

"What the f*** are you doing here," I growl.

"I told you we'd talk," he says to me quietly. Then, more loudly, he says "Verzynski, meet Sheriff Jowett from the Davis Sheriff's Station."

"Mister Verzynski," Jowett greets enthusiastically and squeezes my hand like he's trying to crush it, shakes it so hard it would dislocate my arm if it wasn't the exact same way I shake hands. "Shame I missed you when you came to see Collins the other day. You and I need to have a little talk."

"Okay, look," I start to argue. "Cinnamon's been nothing to do with it-"

"Oh, relax," Jowett says, waving a hand. "I'm happy to have been able to get her a ride back here. Look, why don't we all sit down, is there a waitress? Can we get some liquor over here?"

Tentatively, I sit down, along with Jowett and Jones. Cinnamon gives my arm a squeeze and whispers "I'm sorry, Pawel," while a smartly-dressed young lady comes over and takes an order from Jowett for four double-scotches, with a little extra if she doesn't mind.

When she's gone, Jowett says "I like the way you handle yourself, Verzynski."

"Thanks," I say.

"The way you held your own between those Mexis and The Lost? I can really use a guy like you!" He's beaming at me now.

"Hang on, what's going on here," I ask, uncertainly.

"I'm offering you a _job_ , kid! Paleto Bay Sheriff's Station."

"Paleto Bay?"

"Yep. You might've heard they lost a few guys earlier? Some crew hit the Savings Bank this morning, so we need some new blood. One guy to make it feel like ten. From what I've seen, you fit the bill."

I must look as lost as I feel because Jones adds "what, you think you're the only guy making a mess in San Andreas? Last week some a$$hole tore Madrazo's house down! Couple days later, a crew hit a jewelry store in Rockford Hills."

Damn. No wonder Madrazo had been so p*seed.

Jones goes on. "Just think about it a minute, Verzynski. You stay in the city, how long do you think it's gonna be before you're right back up sh*t creek?"

The waitress arrives, puts large glasses filled with whisky in front of each of us. Jowett raises his. "It's a fresh start for the two of you," he beams.

"Cin," I ask, turning towards her. What the hell is she gonna do in a quiet hick town like Paleto Bay?

Her face is showing surprise, but it gives way quickly to excitement. "It's a really good opportunity," she smiles at me quietly.

"Your bike's already up there," Jowett goes on. "I know you need a place to live, but there's plenty of fine establishments that'll put you up, with the Blaine County Sheriff's discount, until you get to buying yourself a place!" He leans forwards and whispers to me conspiratorially "and, if you're a team player, there's plenty of scope to make a little extra 'on the side'. So how about it?"

How about it? January 2014, Cinnamon and I close the deal on a house on Procopio Drive. The realtor was David Cho. Yep, seriously. He nearly died of panic when we first showed up to view the place.

Cinnamon is learning to do nails, works at Belinda May's Beauty Salon.

I have to wear a uniform, and a hat. It took some getting used to, but not too much; I walk into the Sheriff's station and get good mornings from everyone and my coffee waiting for me.

We have a bit of a problem locally with The Lost MC, but it's nothing we can't deal with. There's quite an attractive, er, bonus scheme, shall we say?

Part 19C : Candace Butler

I didn't see Shaun again until about two and a half weeks later. When I did, it was to visit him, in official capacity, at County Holding, over the phone through a bulletproof screen.

"What's happened," he asked as soon as he saw me.

"Don't," I snapped.

Diaz and the N.O.O.S.E. team Kirby has gotten assigned to support us bought the Captain of the _Diamond Rain_ and the female prisoner in, along with all the evidence they'd managed to gather before the ship went down early on Wednesday morning.

The _Diamond Rain_ turned out to belong to a Jerry Kapowitz, a liquor and gun store owner based in Vice City. The yacht had been reported missing almost five years ago. The woman pleaded her fifth amendment rights and refused to identify herself, said nothing except that she'd been kidnapped when the boat had been stolen and requested her phone call. We ran her prints and DNA but there was nothing in the system. Her call went to Kapowitz and within four hours his representatives sent some shark lawyer called Harlan Schultz to spring her from our custody. She was ordered not to leave the state but was on a private jet back to Vice City within the hour.

Around the same time she was walking out of the precinct, the yacht's Captain choked to death on a hydrogen cyanide capsule hidden in his dinner. Kirby went through the staff with a fine-tooth comb but we couldn't pin it on anybody.

E-D and I were both surprised how easy it was to crack the encryption on the hard drive he recovered from the _Diamond Rain_ 's vault – our internal technicians had managed to crack it by Thursday morning, we didn't even have to outsource. On it was detailed evidence of favors demanded and payments made to Agent Sanchez, Officer Walker, Lieutenant Gray and about a dozen other law enforcement officials, cops, Feds, lawyers, even a couple of Judges. Indictments followed pretty swiftly.

I escorted Kirby to the FIB headquarters in Pillbox Hill Thursday afternoon to deliver our evidence against Sanchez to Assistant Director Watts in person. He thanked us for the intel, but told us he had a much bigger fish that he intended to use Sanchez to help reel in.

We had plenty of paperwork to file Thursday and Friday, verifying all the evidence from the hard drive to start making arrests and building cases against the people named. All fed to us, tied up in a nice, neat bow.

Friday night, I was walking out to my car. It wasn't parked out front this time, but was in the lot out back. It was a late one, so it was getting dark. That's when The Brunette woman came out of the shadows and demanded "what have you done with Harvey?"

"Not this again," I complained.

"He _helped_ you," she started to complain.

"And he disappeared after I _trusted_ him," I argue back. "I was gonna start looking for Shaun starting with _you_."

"You jumped up little _puta_ ," she spits at me.

I step toward her. "Say that one more time."

Her punch comes faster than I was expecting and my block flails helplessly as her fist connects just above my right cheek, but that's okay. My right jab connects with her jaw. Not as squarely as I'd hoped for, but enough. She comes back at me with a head butt that I manage to get my shoulder in the way of and then jam my elbow up into her face. She stumbles backwards and I follow but she lashes upwards with a kick, the dipped salmon heel of her white shoe connecting painfully with my thigh, and then she's coming back at me with a jab to the head. I'm already wobbling from the kick so I drop to the ground to avoid the punch, kick upwards myself, but my flat ballet pumps don't cause any kind of damage other than to wind her as I connect with her midriff. I throw myself with my legs forward to my feet and she rushes me, slams me against the wall and punches me with a jab, this time I'm powerless to avoid it. I lurch forward with my own head. Yeah b*tch, how do _you_ like it?

I feel the warm spray against my forehead as she makes a sickening noise and staggers backwards clutching at her nose. In the dim light the blood looks black. We stare at each other hatefully and that's when Diaz runs up to us with his gun drawn.

"You alright, Candy," he calls.

"Fine," I groan, feeling nothing like fine at all, but I'm not giving this b*tch the satisfaction of admitting that.

We glare at each other a moment more, and then she turns and barges into Eduardo with her shoulder, catching him by surprise. By the time he's straightened up and whirled around, and I've unholstered my own gun, she's slamming the door shut on a dark blue Tailgater. E-D and I open fire but it's bulletproof, just like her Kuruma.

We'll never see her again.

E-D takes me in the Voodoo to a drugstore to buy cotton wool, antiseptic and painkillers. Ahead of us in the queue some young girls are asking if they can get the morning-after pill. E-D and I raise our eyebrows at each other, like, _really_? This early? Then Eduardo's mouth drops. It takes me a second, but I cotton on.

Why haven't we thought of this before?

So far we've got five victims. We ran all of them for pregnancies, miscarriages, abortions, shared boyfriends, mutual friends, social media connections, nothing. Now E-D is pumped for barging his way to the front and demanding the records of every morning after pill they've sold the past six months so I have to put my hand on his shoulder so he remembers we'll need a warrant. But we _do_ have financial records of the victims we've got so far.

Kirby finds us at our desks in the Detectives' Hall at around ten. "What are you clowns still doing here," he asks us. "Don't you think you've earned yourselves a weekend?"

"We will do if this hunch is right," E-D says.

"Don't stay too late, you'll end up at some other shooting," Kirby warns. "What happened to you," he asks, then shakes his head. "No, don't tell me. I probably don't wanna know."

It's not much, but over the next few hours, we learn three of the five girls have made numerous card purchases or ATM withdrawals from the same chain of pharmacies, Betta Pharmaceuticals. What we can't prove is whether any of them bought a morning after pill, and we're gonna need warrants to demand the sales records to find out.

E-D comes back to mine, even though he should be calling that crime scene technician he likes and arranging to take her to dinner. Instead, we get pizza, beer, chips. We watch Weazel News' coverage of the past week, cheer for Kirby when he appears, throw chips at the screen when Jones gives his press conference. Lieutenant Gray is still missing. Then we watch some sh*tty old Leonora Johnson movie. In the morning I come round still on my couch. E-D is clicking on my laptop.

"There are Betta branches in Rockford Hills, West Vinewood, Mirror Park and Little Seoul," he tells me, perhaps a little more enthusiastically than is strictly healthy.

"We need a warrant, remember," I yawn.

"Oh, yeah, for the sales records, of course. But nothin's stoppin' us from just going in and _askin_ '..."

And there's not. So that's exactly how we spend Saturday morning. We start at Mirror Park but the girl doesn't want to give us any information without a warrant because her manager isn't in yet. We show the photos of our confirmed victims, but she's not worked there long enough.

We have more luck at the second branch at West Vinewood. The manager confirms one of the girls bought a morning after pill from there, and that it wasn't a one off. E-D and I have to give ourselves 'the talk' as we drive over to Rockford Hills. We've been here before, most detectives have. You have a theory. You get one shred of evidence that supports it and you start twisting facts to fit your theory. We can't afford to get carried away.

Except that at West Vinewood, the girl checks to make sure that Mr Ye isn't working at her branch today. He _really_ doesn't approve. Diaz takes his sunglasses off and tells her that we _really_ need her help, shows her the photos and explains they died really horribly and that we're _desperate_ not to let that happen to anybody else. She relents and digs us out the records. Two more of our victims have had morning after pills, several times. Both have been served at least once by the pharmacist Ye Soo Ho. Diaz asks her when he usually works and she tells us that he's usually at the Little Seoul branch but that he works at all the stores according to requirements.

It's all we can do not to light up the Voodoo and scream over to Little Seoul with the noise going. There's a gentleman behind the counter when we enter, small, with black graying hair, glasses, a white coat over a smart white shirt, plain tie with a clip, trousers. He's got a couple of customers ahead of us, so we hang back. E-D joins the queue while I go and browse the shampoo where I can see and hear what's being said without it being obvious that we're working together.

E-D gets to the front of the queue. "Hiya, I need to get the morning after pill for my _chica_ yo," he says. I wince and so does the seller. I discreetly leave the store.

A few minutes later, E-D comes out. "I think he's on the move, you wanna drive the Voodoo?"

"No," I frown. "I'll take the sidewalk."

Sure enough, we see the guy leaving the store. I walk a distance behind him while Diaz cruises slowly round the block in the Voodoo.

We follow him discreetly to an apartment building on Lindsey Circus at the outskirts of Little Seoul. I slip inside just before the door latches closed and duck under the staircase as Ye heads up. I'm glad I put sneakers on today and I follow slowly, keeping as low as I can until I see him go into an apartment marked 6B.

Diaz and I are in communication over Bluetooth headsets so he's already at the door when I get back down to open it for him.

We go on up back to the sixth floor and I knock on the door while Diaz hides on the opposite side with his weapon drawn.

Ye opens the door but he's got it on the chain. "Mr Ye," I ask and he responds in Korean which I can't possibly hope to understand. I show him my badge, introduce myself. He shouts at me then in a fast stream of words that have no meaning, then adds "I not understand! Police brutality! Go away." He's starting to shut the door on us so Diaz spins around and boots it open.

"You speak English, Ese, so stop pretending otherwise," he demands. Ye puts his hand on his head and drops to his knees.

A search of his apartment reveals only a trove of photographs of a young Korean girl. Diaz tries to get him to look at the photos of our victims but he turns his head, glares at the wall, defiant.

There's a few of our colleagues in the Detectives' Hall when we drag Ye through the precinct and cuff him to the table in Interrogation 1. Diaz and I stand outside for a minute deciding on the play and then we both head in. Diaz sets a cup of water down on the table, just out of Ye's reach.

"You don't like selling morning after pills, do you holmes," Diaz opens.

Ye snorts, turns his head away.

"That's okay. I don't really like putting on smart clothes and bein' in the office on time, but that's the job, right?" He sits down opposite Ye now. "See, last night, I was up until like 5am, I was in this club bouncin' with some hot _chica_. I'd much rather still be comin' round with her while she does _breakfast_ , know wha'm'sayin'?"

Ye shakes his head. "I don't know. I don't know. I work in pharmacy. I do my job, I wear shirt, tie. Respectable."

"Respectable," Diaz repeats, tantingly. "Oh, sh*t, I forgot," he says and now he stands up, turns to face me. "I got you the pill you wanted. Guess we both got lucky, huh?"

I smile, take the pill from him. "Thanks D, you're a buddy."

Diaz turns his head back to Ye, scoops up the cup of water. "Mind if I borrow this?"

I take the cup from him, pop the pill. Ye is now glaring at me, teeth clenched. "I don't think he agrees with the morning after pill as my chosen form of contraception," I say sweetly.

"Ooh," Diaz grins, sits back down opposite Ye. "That right, Ese? You got something against freedom of choice?"

"Yeah," I add. "I mean, like, what am I gonna do, have some guy's baby I can't even remember the name of?"

Now Ye slams his cuffed fists on the table. "Freedom of choice," he snaps. "Freedom to behave like a whore? Freedom to deny life to an innocent child? How about freedom to sleep around, get HIV, pass that on to a baby and dump it into an adoption centre?"

Diaz turns serious now. "So that's what happened, huh? You see these women," and he lays the photos down on the desk. "Just going about their lives, having a little fun-"

"You Americans," he spits. "I come here thinking new life, new opportunity! Place my daughter can grow up. And become what? A whore!"

"What happened to your daughter Ye," I snap. I'm serious now, too.

"She died," he says quietly.

"She died?"

"Or you killed her," Diaz accuses. "Like you killed the others?"

"What did you do with the babies," I interrupt.

"Korean church adoption," Ye says. "Those that have any chance of life will get chance of life with _good_ parents."

Diaz stands and turns to me. "That sound like a confession to you," he asks me.

"Why the C-sections," I demand. "That's just barbaric!"

"No more barbaric than throwing away life like throwing away your honour," he snaps. "When they come to term, I parted the child from the mother as quickly as possible. Less they have to do with whores they're born to the better chance they have." Not even a hint of remorse.

"That sounds like a confession," I answer Diaz.

He's reaching up to unplug the video camera in the corner. "Oops."

So yeah, Ye resisted his arrest and he has a black eye while I drag him by his balls through the station to the holding cells. It ain't Vinewood Boulevard, but it'll have to do. Even Kirby's turned up and he and all the cops that are in applaud us as we drag Ye to the cells.

Walker stands up from one of them. "Diaz," he pleads.

"Shut up," Diaz yells at him and he shrinks back away from the cell door.

Saturday night, Kirby's throwing us a party at The Eclipse Lounge. I got us a reservation at Haute to begin with. Well, what's the point having a father with an address in Rockford Hills if you don't enjoy it once in a while, right?

I'm too drunk to drive home, but Diaz is stood in a corner talking and standing pretty close to Abi, the crime scene technician he's been sweet on, and now she's moving towards the door. Diaz leans over to me to give me a high five before he follows her out.

Oh this is too good, I'm gonna have to tease him a little more before he gets her in his Voodoo. I've just made it to the door when I hear the shots, get out just in time to watch Diaz push Abi into the car before red blooms burst from him and he collapses backwards.

"No," I'm screaming as I run to him, cradle his head on my lap as I kneel beside him. "No, Diaz, no!"

Shaun collapses against the screen, almost drops the phone. "I'm so sorry," he mumbles, and he is, but I don't need his sympathy, damn it.

"Can it. What am I doing here," I snap, more viciously than I'd intended.

He's quiet for a long time. Too damn long. "Shaun," I yell.

He takes a breath, sighs. "Ericsson's alive," he says. "I think that Fed had him stashed at Bolingbroke."

My mind runs through various permutations as I ask "how do you know that?"

"I don't," he admits. "Rumor. Hearsay. I dunno. Just... just check it out for me?"

"Sure," I mumble, without conviction, and I turn and walk out without even placing the phone back on it's cradle.

The sun was perversely bright and hot. Half the attendees wore ceremonial uniforms. The other half wore black, although there was splashes of turquoise that I wanted to rip off and set fire to. I was wearing a black trouser suit and large black sunglasses to hide the mascara running down my face as they folded up the flag from his coffin and handed it to his Mom.

The padre walked away once the coffin was lowered and most of the congregation followed. I stayed put, staring at the hole my partner, my best, only friend wound up in. Abi came and stood beside me uncertainly for a minute. I gave her no acknowledgement and eventually she got the message and f***ed off.

I don't know how long I stood after that before I became aware of E-D's Mom standing near me.

"You must be Candy," she said, softly. "He's told me _so_ much about you."

"Mrs Diaz," I start, voice breaking.

"Thank you," she says, and I'm taken completely aback.

"Excuse me?"

"Thank you," she repeats. "For believing in him. For helping him believe in himself."

She's interrupted then as a big dude comes and stands beside her. She pats his hand and turns away.

"You must be E-D's Uncle Gal," I say.

"Detective Butler," he says, kindly, but it makes me wince. "No?"

"Yeah. I'm... not sure about the Detective part..."

"Oh," he says and looks down. "That would be too bad. E-D wouldn't want that."

Yeah? Well, I want my partner back. We don't always get what we want, do we? "I don't think I can," I begin.

He puts a giant hand gently on my shoulder then, raises his gaze to, well, his reflection in my sunglasses. "E-D used to ask all the time if what the _cholos_ were saying was true, if he'd bought disgrace on his family by joining _la policía_." He wipes his eye with the thumb of his free hand. "What I never told him was, back when his Papi and me were joining the Aztecas, it wasn't even a _question_. We _were_ disgracing our family. But we had to do what we believed was right."

I'm glad I still have the sunglasses on.

"He believed in it," Uncle Gal goes on. "Thanks to you."

"But it was Aztecas that killed him," I say.

"Maybe," he says. Calmly, no anger. "Ortega got hit, so a lot of what he controlled is currently in chaos. I'll let you know soon as I know, okay?"

"Thank you," I say and he walks away as tears flood behind my glasses.


	20. Chapter 20

Part 20 : Shaun Harvey

Did you miss me?

You'll have to forgive me if my recap of the weeks after my arrest are a little skewed. I only had Weazel News on the caged TV bolted to the ceiling in the recreation room, and (very) occasional visits to keep me up to speed.

Where do I start? My arrest at Catfish View? That was inconvenient, to say the least.

The biker girl running the show on shore, Brii, roped me in to help her move some of the bikes closer to where we were holding the shore in case the cops came before the yacht team were done.

As it turns out, they did, but one of the Lieutenant's new Homicide dicks, some pretty boy called Fletcher, arrived ahead of them and grabbed me while our backs were turned, before I could get the warning out that a convoy of squad cars and a N.O.O.S.E. riot van was on the way.

Fletcher tried to pin me for the Bolingbroke job. He bought in the guy I'd shot in the shoulder right when the job first went awry and I thought, for sure, I'm on my way to Death Row.

The guy looked right at me and said that I couldn't _possibly_ have been the guy that shot him. He said the guy he'd encountered had been a _professional_. Talk about misreading a situation…

Anyway, all Fletcher had in the end was CCTV evidence of me and The Brunette the night we'd gone into Mission Row and gotten the undercover list from the computer. Since he couldn't tie us to anything else and the computer program had covered up what we'd actually stolen, and since I wouldn't give them anything on The Brunette (couldn't even if I'd wanted to), he had me transferred to Bolingbroke to await trial for Felony Trespass and Felony Computer Crime, and he doesn't even have _that_ anymore; it went missing when the Property Division for Mission Row and La Mesa got raided.

According to Weazel News, the target was a sizable quantity of confiscated heroin, but lucky me, the CCTV evidence went missing and the backup has failed so the case has fallen apart.

This was _definitely_ nothing to do with The Brunette because September/October time an eyewitness video emerged showing her being murdered in the aftermath of some heist at the Humane Labs facility.

Her body went missing in the turbulent aftermath of the job, so technically the case is still open, but a shell corporation registered in the Caymans wrote to me to let me know ownership of her apartment on Integrity Way had been transferred to me.

While I was awaiting trial and occasionally bumping into a few familiar faces that were less than happy to see me, the FIB turned over some evidence to the LSPD Commissioner at Rockford Hills that Agent Andreas Sanchez had been holding on to, evidence that implicates Lieutenant Gray and most of his current Homicide department, so now Mission Row is under the microscope of Internal Affairs. La Mesa is handling their caseload until further notice.

Oh yeah, Agent Sanchez is dead; shootout at the Kortz Centre. The FIB had him working undercover to build a case against his boss, Steve Haines who's since gone missing. Looks like they told Sanchez they might expunge his record if he helped them with a bigger case. Bad luck, Sanchez.

Right, what else? Okay, elsewhere in Los Santos, while I was out at the Dam getting myself shot, somebody went and pulled Martin Madrazo's house in Vinewood Hills down. Two guys apparently used a pickup truck to pull the stilts it stood on from under it according to eyewitnesses.

The Vangelico jewellery store was robbed and, a week or so later, so was the Blaine County Savings Bank in Paleto Bay that left the Sheriff's department in need of a new Deputy. I wonder how Verzynski's adjusting to life in the boonies?

There was a fire that destroyed the top few floors of the FIB building which might have been arson or might have been a terrorist incident.

The body of Lieutenant Gray turned up in the Grand Senora Desert, found by a couple of kids out riding dirtbikes. His pockets were empty and his feet were missing.

A few days later, about half a mile away, they found the corpse of another body that they couldn't identify. Even on the prison's sh*tty TV I recognised him as Madrazo's Asian interrogator. His hands had been sawn off; obviously he'd touched something he shouldn't have.

Yep, Weazel had themselves an extremely busy final quarter of 2013.

It's late May 2014 when finally I step, or rather get shoved, out of the Bolingbroke Penitentiary into the blinding sunshine and overbearing midday heat of the Grand Senora Desert. They'd held on to me as long as they could, I guess hoping more evidence would come to light, and they're obviously p*ssed that it didn't.

Nobody's waiting for me. Well, what did I expect? The Brunette's dead and I've probably alienated everybody else that I ever knew. So I start walking towards Sandy Shores to see if I can't find a bus or a cab or any form of transport at all.

Maybe ten minutes later, once I'm sweating profusely and wondering if I'm not going to die out here to be found in the middle of nowhere like the Lieutenant, a red Blista Compact hatchback screeches past me and comes to a halt a few feet further down the road.

I'm bracing myself for being assassinated by some gangbanger from way back when out of the passenger door comes Josh/Jessica and waves me over.

"Hey," he says as I reach him. "Sorry we missed you, we only just got word they were letting you out today!"

I smile, grateful. "Thanks for coming for me," I say, trying to ignore the fact he's wearing a cropped T-shirt, skintight capri jeans and high-heeled strappy sandals as I scramble into the back of the car. There's a guy in the driver's seat with close-cropped slicked blonde hair, wearing aviator shades and a basketball shirt.

"Meet my girlfriend Alice," Josh/Jessica says.

"Al," she/he corrects from the driver's seat.

 _Damn_ – okay, so there's a _girl_ in the driver's seat with close-cropped slick blonde hair.

"Nice to meet you," I say, trying not to seem like the chump I am, then I look at Josh as he drops down into the front shotgun seat. "What should I call you now? Are you Josh or Jessica or..."

"Jess," he says with a grin. "Thanks for sorting me out a place to stay. Er, are we still okay to-"

"You're fine. I just wanna pick up my stuff and you can carry on living there as long as Lest, er, the _Landlord_ doesn't mind."

We ride for a while, silent apart from Vinewood Boulevard Radio. When I can't take that racket anymore, I say "so how'd you crazy kids meet?"

"She's my boss," Jess explains.

"Oh yeah? Where at," I ask and immediately wonder whether I'm gonna regret the question.

"Hardcore Comics," Al says.

I can't help but smile at how perfect _that_ is.

The Glendale is parked up at the house on Hangman Avenue where Jess and Al have been living pretty much since my incarceration. It looks a _lot_ nicer than it did when I last drove it. A phone starts ringing as soon as I open the trunk.

"Hey," greets a familiar nasally voice.

"Hey, how's things," I ask my favourite hacker.

"Oh, you know, can't complain, mainly because Paige doesn't _stop_ complaining and I can't get a _word_ in."

I hear her scolding him in the background.

"I heard on the grapevine you have a yacht amongst your investment portfolio," I say.

"So you hear. I like the replacement tenants in the Hangman Avenue property..."

"Keep liking them. This place isn't really me, nice as it is."

"Well, that's good. I'm not exactly charging them rent but I appreciate how they keep me up to date with the latest, er, _Eastern_ material-"

"Lest," I interrupt.

" _Landlord_ ," he corrects.

"Landlord, sorry. Anyway, how'd you know I'd got to the car?"

"Same way I know everything," he says. "I'm stalking you through technology. But since you're _at_ the car, you'll find your full payment for the, er, _thing_ in the duffel bag. Of course, I took an equal portion of the fourth share..."

"It's fine," I say. Like I have any choice.

"So, did you get everything you came back for?"

"Almost," I say. "I still need to tie up one thing in my mind."

"Okay? What's that," Lester asks.

"The crew that were running Gray and that Fed. When they called me, before the Paleto massacre, they _knew_ I was looking for Butler even though they didn't have her..."

"I can answer that," he says. "They'd got Gray's phone bugged. Forget what you know about hiding a transceiver in a telephone; shortly after that whole thing with the _Diamond Rain_ , the Triads picked up a piece of their used tech. I had some _other_ 'contractor' 'liberate' it from them. It's basically a mobile data centre. As soon as you called Gray's phone, which was on their network, they could spread their bug to your phone and not only listen to the call but also pull all your data. Incidentally, that's why I've had to abandon my fortress and start calling myself _Landlord_ , so thank you for that."

"Sh*t, they can do that? That's just creepy," I complain.

"Yeah, well, now _I_ have it. Not creepy at all. And I've made myself even harder to trace-"

" _I've_ made you harder to trace," yells Paige.

"Paige has made me harder to trace," he concedes. "Well, uh, see you round, I guess," he says and then he's gone.

Perhaps not; I'll likely never see Lester again.

Before I leave, Jess offers me a cold soft drink, and we sit by the pool.

"Schultz and my mom finally split," he says.

I nod. I'd seen something about it, although it wasn't exactly front page news and wouldn't be unless I released the video I'd got of him. "I saw," I say.

"Is he still co-operating," Jess asks me.

"Yep," I answer and both of us grin coldly.

Yeah, Harlan Schultz is trying to overturn the criminal forfeiture of my house at Sustancia Road now the evidence against me has disappeared, and he's doing it _pro bono_. Ain't he a peach?

"Once I get the house back, do you want me to transfer you the film," I ask.

"Nah," Jess says, waving a hand dismissively. "Less I have to do with that f***, the better. Thanks to you, I got my life sorted out."

I wonder whether that's true as I drive away; maybe, if I'd have gotten involved earlier, he'd never have blurred his gender. Or maybe he would but on his own terms?

Either way, I'll never know, but at the end of the day he's happy now, so who gives a damn about maybe?

Ericsson and Nikki are loading their belongings into a beaten-up Karin Rebel when I pull up to their house. A signpost out front advertises that it's for sale by foreclosure.

Ericsson freezes as I get out of the Glendale, says something to Nikki and she hurries off as he approaches me.

"Hey Joey," I greet.

"Shaun," he growls, cautiously.

"What's going on," I ask, nodding towards the foreclosure sign.

He looks backwards over his shoulder, then back at me. "Money's a little tight these days."

"Damn," I say. We stand in uneasy silence for a while, him glaring at me. "I wasn't sure if I'd really seen you or if it was a hallucination," I say.

"So it _was_ you that sent Detective Butler," he asks. I nod. "Yeah, thanks for that," he concedes, quietly.

Behind him, Nikki comes back out of the house and walks nervously back to us.

"So what do you want Shaun," Ericsson demands.

"Relax, I just came to talk to Nikki," I say.

"The hell you will," he growls, getting defensive but she puts her hand on his shoulder.

"Detective Butler's on her way," she says, softly. Maybe she meant it as a threat, maybe just resigned fact, I don't know.

"Good," I say. "She'll want to hear this too."

It's a few minutes before Candace joins us, finds us in the back yard.

"What are you doing here," she demands.

"It's nice to see you too," I reply. "Have a seat."

She keeps a hard stare on me as she approaches the table and slides into the remaining plastic chair. Now that everyone's here, I ask the question that's been bugging me while I've been inside.

"Not many people knew I was sweet on a girl called 'Flowers'."

Nikki's face falls for a second.

"What," Ericsson begins.

"I sent the email," Nikki admits. I can see Ericsson and Butler both want to jump in but they hold back. Nikki goes on "Joey just disappeared. You were all over the news but there was no mention of what'd happened to him. I knew he was planning on testifying against somebody he worked with so I was scared."

She's barely holding it together. Ericsson puts a hand on her arm and Candace glares at me, wondering what my intentions might be.

"So, after they stonewall you for so long, you get desperate. You bring me back," I say softly and Nikki nods.

The air is tense, hostile, Ericsson and Butler both expecting me to get mad at her. Know what, when I first figured it out, I _was_ , a little. But I've had time to think about it. I'm not mad, not anymore.

"That's okay," I say, softly. "I don't blame you."

Nikki shakes her head. "It was stupid to bring in Madrazo," she sobs.

That surprises me. " _You're_ the one who called him to tell him I was back?"

"I knew the truck heist was his job," she admits. "I didn't expect things to get so out of hand..."

"That's how you got hurt," Ericsson asks her softly and she nods.

"I trailed Harvey when Madrazo let him go, to try and see what he did," Nikki continues. "I hoped he'd give me some clue as to where you were, but he went to Sandy Shores and somehow p*ssed off The Lost MC. They grabbed me when they caught me tailing him."

"Oh, Jesus," I groan. "I'm sorry…"

She shakes her head. "Madrazo sent Verzynski to get me out. Of course, not before they put an end to my stripping career. Johns don't like a dancer who's scarred."

Now I nod and I'm fighting back a tear myself, although from all accounts Verzynski certainly made enough of a mess getting her out. I find myself starting to like the guy.

"Thanks Nikki," I croak around the lump in my throat. Ericsson turns and glares at me.

"So what now," he demands.

"Just one more thing left," I reply and stand up.

Ericsson bolts to his feet. "Look, Harvey, I'm sorry," he says quickly. "It was a mistake to snitch on you to that Fed..."

"So you're not going to follow up," Candace interrupts.

"No," Ericsson says. "I only did it in the first place because I thought I was either gonna go to prison, or get shot, and look what happened anyway; five years in Bolingbroke, in _solitary_. No trial, no record of me even _being_ there. Sanchez paid some guard for me to _disappear_. All I want to do now is make up for lost time with Nikki."

That's all I need to hear and now I turn and stride back to my car.

"Harvey," Candace calls as she and Ericsson follow me. Nikki, meekly, brings up the rear.

I open the trunk of the Glendale. I've taken out what I need, but there's still $100k in cash in there. Ericsson gets to me as I'm resting it on the sill and I unzip it for him. "Here," I say.

"What the f***? No way man," he protests.

"Come on," I say. "You need this."

"No, Harvey, I don't," he says firmly. He knows as well as I do where it came from.

I sigh and reach into my pocket. "Well, if you won't take the money, take this," I say and give him the key to the apartment on Integrity Way. He reads the address on the fob and his eyes widen. He stares at it a few minutes, then mutters "this is a high-end address..."

"I inherited it," I explain. "Already paid for."

"You sure?"

"Take it," I say, and offer him my hand to shake our goodbye.

He looks at the key again, re-reads the address on the fob. "Why?"

"You know why," I say.

Then he tentatively puts an arm around me. "Thank you," he whispers.

Nikki and Candace are holding back, watching us from the front lawn. Ericcson makes his way back to Nikki to show her the address on the fob and then she puts her hands to her face and sobs. Candace steps forward as I quickly zip the bag back up.

"That the money from the truck heist?"

"No," I answer, without offering any further explanation.

"So, after everything, no-one knows what happened to that," she asks.

"Actually," I begin.

I didn't get many visitors while I was inside. Candace came once when I was in County, but after I was transferred to Bolingbroke, I only got two.

One of them was the helicopter pilot. He's told me his name a couple of times but I'm damned if I can remember it, anyway he came to check on the progress of my giving up alcohol. Ain't no choice in the clink. He's my AA sponsor. So anyway, we get to talking and he tells me about some missions he flew in the Military and the beginnings of his battles with addiction.

But then he tells me about a job he had to do one day when he was working an op for Merryweather Private Security.

"It was a doozy," he said. "A real stitch-up. So this rich dude, Devin somebody, quite a big noise apparently. He's had a falling out with a Mexi dope dealer. I say falling out, he screwed him over on some big deal and knows he wants revenge. So, instead of spending the next whatever looking over his shoulder waiting for payback, what he does is he sets a little trap.

"So on an ordinary day, he decides he's gonna move five million dollars in cash, through Los Santos to his depot at the airport. He knows the Mexi is gonna make a move on it, and sure enough he did. Too bad for the Gruppe Sechs crew and the N.O.O.S.E. guy driving it.

"Two things the rich dude didn't count on. One, the Mexi wants to make as much noise as possible while he's hitting it. Keep everyone looking the wrong way. And two, he's got cops on the take being his inside men.

"Bang! They hit the truck and swipe it, right as planned, but not before losing the Alpha Merryweather team. See, long before Merryweather got Federal approval for homeland operations, this Devin guy was using 'em for private muscle. But that's okay, we figure, no big deal. I'm in the truck and I've still got the truck's GPS, even though it's underground.

"Unfortunately what the Mexi wasn't counting on - what _none_ of us was counting on - was there was a second crew. When we caught up with the truck, they'd already taken out the Mexi's guys."

"So what did you do," I asked, trying to sound casual. My heart was in my throat.

"What we were supposed to do," he says. "We took out the crew, posing as a heist crew ourselves. The guys rappelled down from my chopper, killed the guys in the truck and we took it to it's real destination."

He sat back then, but I was leaning forward. "Which was," I asked, the desperation evident in my voice.

"An airfield in the sticks. The money was flown out on a private plane chartered by a shell corporation. The Devin guy laundered it through multiple front companies and claimed it stolen on the insurance. So he doubled his money, but lost his opportunity to pin the theft on the Mexi. The heist crew whose bodies we piled under the Olympic freeway wasn't his, and we never found out what they did with the first set of bodies."

"Wait a minute, Devin Weston stole his _own_ money," Candace asks, incredulously.

I shrug. "Good business, or something. Technically he stole it from Madrazo in the first place."

"Jesus Christ!" I chew some dead skin on the end of my thumb while she tries to wrap her brain around it. Eventually she shakes her head. "Who was your other visitor," she asks.

"My ex."

"What? What did you say to her?"

"I told her to go home."

She looks to the pavement and chews her lip. "So what are you gonna do now?"

"Dunno," I answer, honestly.

"Wanna get a drink or something," she asks me, eventually, quietly.

"Are you crazy? I'm still recovering," I say. "But we could get something to eat?"

She looks up at me, tucks a strand of her blonde hair behind her ear. "That'll work. Follow me," she says and hooks a thumb behind her to her ride.

A little way along the street sits a gleaming, immaculately restored Declasse Voodoo, sitting low on wire rims.

I nod and get into the Glendale. Watch as she gets into the Voodoo and fires it up. She pulls off and I ease out onto the road after her. I turn on the radio, tune it to Radio X in time to catch Bad Religion's _Against The Grain._

 _We're about a mile out from the shore of North Chumash. A few months ago there were only one or two organisations operating from yachts, but after the_ Diamond Rain _crew were shut down, there's been a gap in the market filled by more than a dozen enterprising 'entrepreneurs'. Or, to put it another way, a lot of heists that the_ Diamond Rain _crew would have had first offer on are now having to be put out to other crews in the power vacuum created by their absence. So there's a lot of recently wealthy individuals sullying the Los Santos jet set of late._

 _One thing about living out at sea, I miss my cars and my motorcycle collection. The few that I kept are in a lockup at Supply Street in La Mesa. The rest I sold off, along with my other apartments. I have one now at Tinsel Tower and a small house in Paleto Bay, but I spend most of my time aboard this yacht._

 _There's an old Vinewood saying that there's no such thing as a safe squib shot. That's true. I took part in a little home movie a while back that's left me with a scar just to the left of my forehead. So now I have to be careful to remember my paintball mask whenever I pull a job. It's fading nicely, but I'll never be truly pretty again._

 _It's a little after 5pm. Brii and I are watching Hookies through binoculars from the top deck of the club's yacht. There's a rumor that 42mc are meeting with The Lost a little later and we wanna disrupt it._

 _We can see a couple of The Lost guys and their girls hanging out, but they just seem to be chilling for now, not bothering the customers. Hookies is renowned for it's seafood. As I watch, a pretty sweet Declasse Voodoo pulls into the yacht, followed a few seconds later by..._

 _No! It can't be..._

 _Brii laughs from beside me as we watch Shaun getting out of the car I had restored for him, and walking over to meet Butler, who's getting out of the Voodoo._

 _"Well, I'll be damned," I say._

 _"That's okay," Brii says. "It's not like anything's gonna happen in the next couple of hours."_

 _"No," I concede and put down the binoculars. She leads the way back down to the lower deck and the hot tub. She's wearing a shirt which she unbuttons and slips off and I take off my fur coat. Underneath, we're both wearing bikinis and now we join Ant and Fufu. "I just don't know what to do with myself until we move," I complain._

 _Fufu wraps her arms and legs around me from behind. "_ I _might be able to think of something," she purrs._


End file.
